


Lost + Found

by justkeepdreaming



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, Fluffyfest, Marvel Universe, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Protective Bucky Barnes, Romantic Fluff, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 49
Words: 53,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkeepdreaming/pseuds/justkeepdreaming
Summary: A post-Captain America: Civil War fanfiction.I'm Chloe Tuominen. I'm just an average girl. An average physical therapist with an average apartment, an average life, and above-average hair.That is, until I'm mugged one night and kill two men with my bare hands.Accidentally, I might add.Suddenly I've been tossed into a not-so-average world of heroes and villain - where I meet Captain America and his best friend (also with above-average hair), Bucky Barnes - after losing everything that I know, and now I have to find my way back.++++++++++++++++++++RATED PG-13: Violence and some strong language.© 2016. All rights reserved. All content (except original characters and storylines) is the property of Marvel. This story was originally posted on Wattpad.





	1. Chapter 1

**LET'S BE HONEST** , right off the bat. I'm nothing special.

I'm just a girl with above average hair, below average height, and a penchant for healing. My mom wanted me to be a surgeon, said I had a gift, but I was never a big fan of the whole "blood and guts" thing. Sure, I love making people feel better. I might even be really good at it. Unfortunately, I'm squeamish as all get out, and I don't really see that changing in the near future.

We should probably backtrack for a moment.

My name is Chloe. Chloe Tuominen. It's a mouthful, I know, so you're allowed to forget it. My mom's from Wakanda (surprisingly enough, her last name was Smith), and my dad's family emigrated to the US from Finland two generations ago. That's right. I'm Finnish-African-American. I was born and raised in Bethesda, Maryland - a suburb of Washington, D.C. - where my father was a teacher and my mother is a doctor. Catch the was? Dad died when I was 10, and Mom never moved on. Instead, she threw herself into her work, conveniently forgetting that she had two daughters relying on her sorry ass.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

My sister's name is Artemis, named after the Greek goddess of the hunt. (She hates going outside, just to be clear. Ari's hobbies include shopping, boys, and male models. Two of those things are the same, yes, but she likes to "diversify".) Our parents were obsessed with Greek mythology, which is why I was named after one of the many epithets for Demeter, goddess of the harvest, presider over sacred law and the cycle of life and death. Cheery, right?

Ari and I moved into DC proper when I was 18. Mom sprung for an apartment (because if she isn't able to provide for us with motherly care, at least her physician's salary is good for something, right?) in a nice part of town, decent building, while I went to college nearby. Ari, who was 13 at the time, was promptly enrolled into Maret School, a private co-ed school northeast of downtown DC. (Notable alumni include Rosalind Wiseman, aka author of "Queen Bees and Wannabees," the book that the movie  _Mean Girls_  was based upon. Ari was thrilled to be in attendance, while I was less-than-excited.)

That was seven years ago. Now, Ari is a sophomore at George Washington University, studying Italian Language and Literature ("because Italy is a hub of fashion, duh" is what she told me), and I'm a physical therapist at a nearby nursing home. Gift of healing, remember? I might not be able to stand gore, but somehow wrinkly old bodies don't bother me at all.

Let's get back to the present, the reason for this story. This is the day my life changed forever.

Cue dramatic music.

I just finished a shift at the nursing home, where my last session of the day was with Paul, a friendly man who had recently undergone a hip replacement. Paul was a favorite patient of mine, as he absolutely adored me. Some people might not like it when an 82-year-old man hits on them, but I happen to think it's cute. He loves my long, purple streaked black hair (my employer doesn't agree, but they were desperate for a PT, so ha), and he's always trying to convince me to join him for the weekly bingo night on Tuesdays.

Personally, I think the only reason Paul likes me is because I take his mind off his hip. I'm pretty good at my job, and I usually leave my patients feeling abnormally refreshed and relieved. Paul tells me that he's never felt pain relief like he has from my hands. Like I said, he's a flirt.

Walking home, I tuck my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, zipping it up to my neck to protect me from the heavy winds whipping through the city. It's only 6:30PM, but the sky is dark with incoming thunderheads and the tall buildings next to me only thrust me further into the shadows.

I cross the street, checking both ways for oncoming cars, before jogging to the other side. My apartment is four blocks ahead, and I'm currently debating between another night of Indian takeout or something a little more 'health-conscious'. I'm sure you can already guess, but the call of garlic naan is winning.

One second, I'm salivating over the thought of the warm flatbread in my hands, savoring the idea of carbs hitting my tastebuds, and the next I'm pulled into the dark alley by two strangers. A hand is clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams of terror, and the other spins me around to shove me against the brick wall.

My back lands with a dense thud, pain shooting up my spine, as I look at my attackers in the face. A knife is pressed against my throat, held by the man with his hand covering my mouth, and his friend holds a small pistol trained on my forehead. Both are wearing black ski masks, their eyes dark in the shadows. Tears begin to escape the prison of my eyes as I silently pray for my life.

"Make a sound, and you die," the man with the knife instructs, waiting for me to respond.

I nod my head vigorously like a bobblehead, stopping when I feel the sting of the cold metal of the knife press into the skin of my throat and a trickle of something wet rolls down my neck. His friend grabs my handbag, yanking it over my head and off my shoulder, before zipping it open and pulling out my wallet. He retrieves my credit cards and cash, slipping my iPhone into his pocket, before tossing the bag to the ground. Terrified, I watch as he pockets my belongings before nodding to his friend.

"Now, sweetheart, hold still," says the man holding my mouth.

He sticks his knife in his back pocket, then begins to pat down my pockets. Grinning, he squeezes my ass before pulling the rings off my fingers. I can feel my heartbeat pounding heavily against my chest, shaking at the touch of his rough hands on my skin. This can't be happening. I scream against his palm as he lifts his hand to my neck, jerking away from his touch as he smiles gruffly. His fingers run along the chain around my neck, a family heirloom with more sentimental than financial value, and I jerk away from his touch.

No, no, no, no...

My eyes grow unbelievably wide with horror, fighting against the man with all of my strength, while his friend watches in amusement. I bite at his palm, desperate to make an escape and no longer worried about my survival.

"Bitch!" He cries, backhanding me with his now-bloodied palm.

I try to run, but he shoves his knee into my groin and captures my neck with his hand. I can't breathe or scream as I gasp for air, while black spots begin to dot my vision. His hand is back at the drawstring of my pants, fumbling with the double knot that I am now supremely glad I always tie, and the only thing I can think of is how much I would like to see this man die.

In an instant, his body jerks as if pain is shooting through him. Recoiling from me, I watch in a daze as his dark eyes roll into the back of his head and he staggers a few steps before collapsing to the ground. Sucking in heavy breaths, his friend watches in horror as the man writhes in the dirt foaming at the mouth, before settling into the blank stare of death.

What the hell? I look at my hands, which are burning along with the rest of my skin, before turning back to the man with the gun. He holds the pistol up to me, his hands shaking, and I lunge for him. My hands touch the sides of his face and his eyes instantly roll back in his head, the gun clattering to the ground, before he falls to the same deadly state as his friend.

Shoulders heaving from fear and effort, I stare at the two men for a few moments before the sounds of the city pull me from my stupor. Rain begins to fall from the sky, drenching my clothes, and I am unable to move. My whole body is shaking, my muscles weak with fear and the adrenaline expenditure.

 _Come on, Chloe_ , I scold myself.  _Move, you idiot!_

I kneel by each of the men, checking their pulses, and confirm that they are both exactly as I fear - dead.

Oh shit.

A loud crack of lightning illuminates the alley, and I force myself to move. Reaching into the pocket of the man who took my wallet, I clumsily retrieve my credit cards, money, and phone before grabbing my now-soaked purse from the mud and shoving my belongings in it.

Without looking behind me, I take off in a dead sprint for home, my skin still burning with rage.

_Dead. They're dead. I...I think I killed them._


	2. Chapter 2

**BY THE TIME**  I make it home, I'm soaked to the bone. Even though it's a mildly warm night, my teeth are chattering as I stand in front of my apartment door fiddling with my keys.

_Dammit. I can't--_

I drop the keys, biting my lip to keep my tears at bay, and lean down to pick them up only to slam my forehead against the doorframe. Pain erupts through my skull, and the waterworks I've managed to hold off spring from my eyes like I've struck oil. They make it difficult to see as I search the floor near my feet for my keys once more, fumbling for the right one, then jam it into the lock.

The door swings open with a push, allowing me to rush inside and slam it behind me. Choking back sobs, I manage to twist the lock and the deadbolt behind me - forgetting about my sister who isn't home yet - before sliding down the door to collapse in a heap on the ground.

_What did I do? What did I--_

Three sharp knocks bang against the door, and a small yelp escapes from my lips. I use both hands to wipe the tears from my now-puffy eyes, leaving my keys and purse on the floor, and use the small side table next to the door to heave myself upright. It's harder than it should be. My muscles quake from exertion. I work out semi-regularly, but nothing can prepare a body for what mine endured this evening. The lack of adrenaline coursing through my veins doesn't help either.

"Chloe? C'mon, you're late," A muffled voice says through the door. "I'm hungry."

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit._

It's Mara. My best friend Mara. The person I tell everything, Mara. The person I'm supposed to be going to dinner with tonight for our weekly wine + dine session, with an extra side of gossip. Except this isn't exactly something you can gossip about to your best friend, is it? Hey, by the way, I found out I'm a freak tonight, and - oh, did I mention that I think I'm a murderer?

My mind races as I try to think of a solution. Obviously I can't go to dinner. One, I'm a wreck. Two, I still don't know what happened back there. Did I kill those men? With my bare hands? What if...what if I touch someone else and it happens again? No sir, no thank you. I cannot go out of this house.

Not to mention the fact that, after tonight, I'm not sure I'm going to get my appetite back. Ever.

_Oh, I feel sick._

The room spins, and I rest my throbbing forehead against the doorframe before unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door just a crack. Mara, a curvy redhead, is tapping her foot impatiently as she glances down the hallway, probably keeping an eye out for my hot neighbor three doors down. Her head whips over to me, and for a second I think she's pissed - more than pissed - and my heart leaps into my throat.

_She knows. Oh god, she knows._

"Chloe?" Her eyes soften in a heartbeat, and oxygen fills my lungs at the sound of concern in her voice. "Are you okay, babe?"

I nod, unwilling to open the door any further. She puts a palm on the door, pushing it to give her entry, but I use what little strength I have left to hold it steady. Luckily, Mara is 5'1" and 140 pounds, her petite frame stacked with curves in all the right places. Her wild curls are twisted up into a topknot, and she's wearing her go-to after work uniform of Lululemon athletic clothing (which she insists on wearing non-stop, regardless of the fact that I'm not certain she's exercised since 2012 when I forced her to try yoga with me). Basically, even when I'm as worn down as I am right now, I can take her.

"I'm good," I croak, the words catching in the series of emotional lumps still clogging my throat. "I don't think--"

She narrows her blue eyes at me, "Chloe, what's wrong? Why won't you let me in?"

"I, uh..." Crap. I can't think of anything. I'm naked? There's a guy here? I killed someone? Shit, all I can think of are the worst excuses that are either A) completely and obviously lies or B) the truth that I definitely don't want to come out. "I'm sick," I manage to lie.

Most of my body is hidden behind the door, including my rumpled scrubs, so Mara is forced to inspect my face for any signs of illness. She leans forward, and I jerk away from her, smashing my temple on the doorframe, to keep my distance. Last thing I want is to kill my best friend from her  _touching_  me.

"Ow!" I cry, fresh tears springing to my eyes as I drop my hold on the door. "Goddammit!"

"Why don't you let me in, Chloe?" Mara asks. Her voice is low, and I can tell she's caught on that something is wrong given my severe overreaction to bumping my head. Swearing? Relatively normal. Bursting into tears? Not so much.

I brace my foot against the door, leaning my body weight into it, as I shout, "No!"

_Too loud, Chloe, too loud. Now she's definitely going to be able to tell that something is up._

"Listen, Mar, I'm sorry," I mumble. "It's just...it's been a really bad day. On top of everything, I'm exhausted, I got rained on, I've got a splitting headache. I just don't think I should go out. I wouldn't want to get you sick."

She drops her voice, "Chlo, did someone die?"

"What?!" I struggle to keep my voice even, but panic is rising in my chest. My knuckles grip the edge of the door so hard that they've turned white, and my lungs feel like they might burst. I can't go to jail. I have to take care of my sister. I have my job, and my patients. I have so much ahead of me. It can't be over now.

My fingers start to burn, a sensation nearly identical to the one I felt in the alley when I touched the two men - when I killed them. If Mara were to reach out and touch me, even just brush against my skin, I have no idea what would happen and I'm not exactly looking to find out. Whatever this is, I can't control it, and the fact that I'm panicking is making it even worse. I can feel the fire spreading up my arms, an invisible plague drifting over my skin and masking me with nothing but death.

_Oh god, I might be sick._

"Did one of your patients die? It wasn't Paul, was it?" Mara clarifies. "I know it's upsetting, but they're old. It's bound to happen when you work at a nursing home, Chloe."

Oh, thank goodness.

"No," I tell her. "None of my patients died." Someone else did though. Two someones. And they're lying dead in an alley less than a mile from here, probably covered in my fingerprints, waiting for someone to find them and call the cops and--

"Babe, you need to get some rest," she interrupts my runaway freight train of anxious thoughts. "We can do dinner tomorrow night, if you're feeling better, but for now - take one of Ari's Ambiens, drink some OJ, and get in bed."

The only thing I can do is nod. I mutter a goodbye before closing the door in my best friend's face and lock it. Watching through the peephole, I watch her walk away slowly without looking back at my door. Straightening slowly, my eyes land on the edge of the door where my hand gripped and the clear outlines of my thumb is imprinted into the wood, a shriveled and rotten indentation that I'm sure is repeated four more times for each of my fingers on the other side.

This is bad. Very, very bad.


	3. Chapter 3

**FOR REASONS UNKNOWN** , I turn on the television. Maybe part of me is expecting to see my picture flash up on the flat screen, along with a warrant for my arrest, or - at the very least - a report on the two dead men found in the alley not far from my apartment building. So far, no such luck.

I can't tell if I'm relieved or not.

Stripping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror. There's a thin red line on my neck from the knife that pricked me with a bit of crusted blood on it, but I can hardly see any change in my appearance other than my swollen red eyes. Twisting around, I try to check my back for bruises after the man slammed me against the brick wall. It's tender to the touch, but no discoloration has appeared on my caramel skin. Yet.

While I might be fine on the outside, inside I feel like I'm slowly suffocating.

I head back into my bedroom to snag a towel from my closet, thankful for the privacy of my master suite, and run my hand through my knotted and rain-soaked extensions. Normally I'd tuck my long hair into a shower cap to protect the weave, but I really don't care at this point. Glancing at the television as I pass, a wave of recognition moves through me and I freeze.

The face in the blurry photo on the screen is hard to make out, but I'd recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere. It's him.

 

**_< ><><><><> Flashback <><><><><>_ **

 

_"I don't know why you insist on getting your coffee from Dunkin' Donuts," I tell Mara as we exit the coffee shop. I carefully sip at my black coffee sweetened with single packet of Splenda, holding the door open for her while she juggles her wallet, iced latte, and chocolate cake donut. There's already a bite missing from it, and I can't help but laugh. "Just admit it. You're addicted to those donuts."_

_Mara shakes her head, "I am not! I just happen to love the combination of coffee and donut. Otherwise, what's the point? Besides, I'm a journalist. We thrive off caffeine and junk food. It's the fuel to my last-minute late night writing sessions."_

_"It's the afternoon," I point out._

_"I know," Mara quips. "I'm fueling up early for tonight."_

_We turn right down 23rd Street toward Virginia Avenue, heading back to the GW Hachet office where Mara is going to be spending her afternoon. We're both in our second year of grad school at George Washington University, where I'm on track to get my doctorate in Physical Therapy and Mara's getting her Masters in New Media Photojournalism._

_The sound of an explosion ahead causes me to jerk my head up, and I drop my coffee in shock as I watch a bus collide with a service truck and go tumbling into traffic. Chaos erupts around us, the sounds of screaming and distant gunfire from the bridge filling my ears. People begin running past us, but Mara's journalistic sensibilities kick in and she drops her coffee and donut into a nearby trashcan while sprinting toward the madness._

_"Mara, wait!" I shout after her, pulling out my phone to dial 9-1-1 as I run after her into the throng of fleeing civilians. I'm not a medical doctor, but I know enough about first aid to know that I can help anyone injured in the bus._

_A police car speeding toward the accident explodes, the fireball consuming the officer inside, and I barely resist screaming into the phone. I tell the operator my location along with as many details as I can gather about what's going on before I see him._

_His long brown hair hangs past his chin, and he wears a black muzzle over the lower half of his face. With only his_ _eyes_ _exposed, I freeze where I stand and watch him lift the assault rifle equipped with a grenade launcher over his shoulder. He's dressed in solid black leather, but I hardly notice as I can't peel my eyes away from his left arm - his metal left arm. As someone who studies mobility, I notice how it's shaped to mirror the muscles and movement of his other arm before registering the look on his face. He kneels down next to a van, rolling something underneath, before standing straight and taking aim at a car parked less than a block from where I am._

_The car explodes, and I stumble backward at the sight of it. A redhead jumps out of nowhere, landing on the man's back only to be tossed off like she weighs nothing. She pushes herself off the ground, throwing something at his metal arm, before taking off running toward me._

_Oh shit, she's running toward me._

_"Get out of the way!" She shouts as she runs, waving off the people scurrying toward shelter. "Stay out of the way!"_

_Taking a cue from her, I spin on my heels when she's less than a few feet from me and begin to run only to hear the sound of a gunshot shattering glass and a cry of pain behind me. Every fiber in my body tells me to duck, so I instantly lower myself to the ground whilst protecting my head. Like an idiot, I whirl around to see the redhead clutching her left shoulder and rush over to her._

_"Shit! Are you okay?" I ask, slowly lowering my hands and hurrying over to her. I kneel in front of her, pushing her hand out of the way so I can inspect the wound. She's breathing heavily, her eyes wide as they frantically search the chaos behind us for the shooter. I hear a thud followed by the sound of a gun cocking to my right, and we both whip our heads in that direction to see the man with the metal arm on top of a car ready to fire._

_Our eyes meet, blue and brown, and he hesitates. A split second feels like an hour, and I'm certain that my heart has stopped beating as I stare into his angry eyes. If my voice worked, I might ask him what he's waiting for, but instead I'm left with my eyes locked onto the blue eyes of the man pointing an assault rifle at us._

_That delay turns out to be a lifesaver - literally - as a blonde man comes charging at the man with the metal arm. Distracted from us, he pulls back his left arm and throws a punch at the blonde who holds up a shield to block him. The sound of metal impacting against metal hits my ears, and my jaw drops as I recognize the shield._

_It's Captain America. The one from New York, who stopped the aliens. Which means I must be caught in the middle of a bigger shitstorm than I originally imagined._

_"C'mon," I say to the redhead, grateful that Captain America's appearance has bought us an opportunity to escape. "Come on, we need to go."_

_Pulling her to her feet, I wrap her uninjured arm around my neck and grab her by the waist. Luckily, we're almost the same height, so I'm able to support her weight without much of a problem. We flinch at the sound of more gunfire, but thankfully it doesn't seem to be pointed at us._

_"Why are you helping me?" She asks, her voice flat as she grits her teeth from the pain. "You don't know if I'm one of the bad guys."_

_I snort, "You're with Captain America. I'm pretty sure you're not one of the bad guys. Besides, you're not the one with the grenade launcher."_

_We take a few more steps forward, then she stops suddenly. I turn to look at her face, praying that she's not about to pass out on me, and she whispers the words 'grenade launcher' before tugging away from me._

_"Hey, no," I tell her, holding her tight so she can't pull away from me. She's losing blood pretty fast, and I don't think she needs to go back into the fray. "We've got to get you to the hospital. It's only a couple of a blocks north of here. Your friend can handle this."_

_She shakes her head, "You don't know him like I do."_

_I can't help but look confused at her statement, because I'm pretty sure Captain America deserves at least some vote of confidence. After all, whoever he is - the man with a shield is clearly capable of holding his own. Then the realization hits me as she manages to slip out of my grasp, rushing toward where the assault rifle the man with the metal arm had pointed at us earlier. She's not talking about Captain America, she's talking about him._

_Running after her, I see the two men between the cars, and I watch as the Captain throws the man with the metal arm. The black mask covering his face clatters to the ground, meaning when he turns I can see his entire face. I don't know if I expected to see some sort of disfiguration or something, but the man who stands in front of the Captain is not what I am prepared to see. He's...well, gorgeous. He can't be more than a few years older than I am._

_The Captain seems baffled too because he's staring at the man - dumbfounded - instead of continuing his assault._

_"Bucky?" I hear him say._

_"Who the hell is Bucky?" The man with the metal arm replies, squaring his body to face the blonde and pulling out his gun._

_Before he can squeeze off any shots, a third man - this one wearing mechanical wings - swoops down and crashes into this Bucky, toppling him to the ground. I gasp at the spectacle, and his piercing blue eyes meet mine from the distance - a look of confusion deep within them - before he pushes himself to his feet and lifts his gun once more._

_A different gun fires near me, and I whirl around to see the redheaded woman - using a truck for support - armed with the now-smoking grenade launcher. Heat from the explosion hits my bare skin, and I turn back to watch as the fire and smoke clear from where the man with the metal arm stood._

_He's gone._


	4. Chapter 4

**I'M IN THE SHOWER**  long after the water runs cold, but I don't think I can feel the change in temperature. At this point, I still can't stop thinking about the two men in the alley. There's been no news of them still - I may or may not have Googled it - and the police scanner app I downloaded to my iPhone doesn't seem to be working correctly.

"Chloe?" I hear a voice calling to me, along with a loud banging noise on the wall. "Chloe -- come on, let me in."

 _Shit, it's Ari_.

I turn off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my body. I turn the police scanner app down and hurry through my bedroom to the front door so I can let my sister into our apartment. We had one of those deadbolts installed last year that can't be unlocked from the outside after Ari had a stalker scare with a former classmate, meaning we lock each other out of the house more often than you'd think. It's a pain in the ass, but it helps her sleep better at night. Well, that and the Ambien.

"I'm sorry, sorry," I mumble, unlocking the deadbolt and twisting the door handle open to see my sister standing there - hands on her hips - surrounded by a small crowd of her friends.

"Uh...Chloe?" Ari motions at my appearance, and I blush when I realize that I'm standing - practically naked - in front of a bunch of my sister's friends.

"Oh god," I back away from them, kicking a chair, "Dammit, oh god. I'm sorry. I'm just..."

I continue my retreat back to my bedroom, hobbling as pain shoots up my leg from smashing it against the leg of a chair. The door slams behind my back and I rest my forehead against it while trying to lower my heart rate. Now is definitely  _not_  the time for there to be a bunch of strangers in my house, and I certainly don't think it's a good idea for me to get all upset considering...whatever is happening to me.

A light tap on my bedroom door startles me, and I can hear Ari's concerned voice coming through the wood, "Hey, Chloe - you alright? I thought it was wine + dine night with Mara. What's going on?"

"N-nothing," I call out, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to project confidence. "I...um...I'm just running late. Got caught in the rain, so I told Mara I'd meet her later."

"Ok," my sister says, clearly unconvinced. "Are you gonna let me in, or do I have to stand out here like an idiot?"

"I, um.." I swear inwardly. "I'm putting my clothes on, Ari. I'll be out in a minute."

She murmurs a response that I can't hear, so I drop my towel and run to my closet. Obviously going out in public right now would be the very definition of a bad idea, but Ari's a snoop - a sweetheart, but a snoop - and I know she won't leave me alone if I feign illness. God, unless she thought I was dying of the plague, she'd probably force me out of the room to socialize with her and her friends.

Grabbing a pair of jeans, I jerk them on over my underwear and pull a long-sleeve black t-shirt over my head to cover my arms. My skin is still crawling from the man in the alley, the way he touched me, so I pull on my leather jacket as well. Anything to provide an extra layer of padding between me and the outside world. I briefly consider a pair of gloves, but I don't want to make Ari even more suspicious, so I stuff them inside my jacket pocket instead before pulling on my boots.

My purse is still soaked and covered in mud, so I grab my wallet and keys out of it before snagging my phone and running out of my bedroom. Ari and her friends are sitting in the living room, laughing about something that one of the guys just said, and my sister's eyes snap to mine when she sees my clothing choices.

"You going out like that?" She asks, raising an eyebrow. I'm not known for my sartorial prowess, given the fact that I basically live in the nursing home's required uniform of scrubs, so the amount of leather is giving me an uncharacteristic amount of edge. "It's pretty warm out, Chlo."

"Yeah, I know," I say, backing up toward the door in an effort to keep my distance. She stands, taking a step toward me, and I fumble for the door handle behind me. "I, um...everything else was dirty, and my other jacket is still soaked, so..."

I push the door open with my back and step out into the hallway. Ari is watching me as I retreat, her friends oblivious to what is going on (and probably convinced I'm on drugs, let's be serious), and my eyes land on the full basket of freshly-folded laundry sitting on the kitchen table from last night right before the door slams shut in my face.

Okay, so I never said I was a good liar.

Without a plan, I take off down the stairs and out into the street. It's kinda hard to figure out what to do when you've been mugged, nearly raped, and discover you have some kind of freak mutation all in a span of fifteen minutes, so I don't really blame myself for not having a clue what to do next. I just keep replaying what happened in the alley, and before I know it, I'm back where it happened.

 _This was a bad idea,_ I scold myself when I spot the darkness of the alley up ahead.  _Oh, god. This was a bad idea. Turn around. Go back home. Lock your bedroom door, and get some sleep like Mara said._

My feet ignore my head, and now I'm staring into the shadows only to discover it's empty.

The two men? Gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**I HAVE TO QUIT MY JOB**. No way in hell can I work around the elderly if one touch will kill them. I mean, touching them is  _part_  of my job.

Oh, hello, I'm the physical therapist who refuses physical contact. Confused yet? Me too!

Ugh. This is the worst thing that could've happened to me. No, scratch that, whatever those guys planned on doing to me in the alley is the worst thing that could've happened to me, but this takes a very close second. I have no idea what to do, where to go, or any of that shit.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit._

Believe it or not, I don't actually swear that much. Not really. Nor am I an absolute klutz, unlike my lack of coordination back at the apartment might lead you to believe. No, I'm just panicking. Abso-freaking-lutely panicking. My head can barely tell my heart to keep beating, let alone to maintain balance.

I jam my hands into the pocket of my leather jacket, feeling the fabric of my brown leather gloves brushing against my fingertips, and I take them out and jerk them on. It's getting dark out, so I don't think anyone will notice that I look like a serial killer wearing these stupid gloves in May. I don't want to risk any accidents.

 _Oh god,_  I can't help but think back to those men.  _This was all an accident. I never meant for this to happen, and now they're dead. They're gone._

Where could they've gone? It's not like someone knew what happened and moved the bodies. Right? That's ridiculous. Isn't it? Oh god, it isn't. Someone could've seen. What if they called the police? What if they're after me? What if they go back to the apartment?

 _Ari_ , my eyes widen with fear for my baby sister, and I spin on my heels and take off down the street.

Except, well, I collide with a human body. Not a normal human body, per se, more like a brick wall shaped like a very tall and muscular man, but brickish enough to send me toppling to the ground. The streetlamp behind him makes it impossible to make out his facial features, so I squint my brown eyes and scramble backward before standing to my feet. He stretches out a hand to help me and I almost take it - then have a mini heart attack, of course - before coming to my senses and refusing it. Who knows if leather gloves are enough of a barrier, right?

"I'm sorry," I rush out, making a move to sidestep him. "I should really watch where I'm going. I'm so sorry."

He snags my upper arm as I pass him, spinning us both around so I now have my back to the streetlamp and light floods his features. He's tall - way tall - and super blonde, with the kind of blue eyes that would normally pierce my heart and give me a heart attack, if I wasn't having one already, that is. Concern is etched all over his chiseled features, and I can't help but break my gaze on his admittedly perfect face to stare at the hand locked in a vise-like grip around my bicep.

"Oh, excuse me, ma'am," he says, dropping his hand. "I didn't mean to...I just thought...you have a bruise on your..." He inhales before trying again, "Are you okay? Normally people don't come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk and sprint in the opposite direction without a good reason."

"I, umm..." I stutter, suddenly overwhelmed by the compassion in his blue eyes, before shaking my head with a fake laugh. "I forgot something."

He smirks, one corner of his pink lips turning up into a smile, "Must've been pretty darn important."

"Yeah, it was. I mean, it is," I reply, before quirking an eyebrow at him. "Did you just say darn?"

His cheeks flush red, and he directs his blue eyes to the suddenly very interesting crack in the sidewalk. He totally just said darn. And he called me ma'am. Whoever this guy is, holy cow, talk about old school.

"Sorry, that was rude," I tell him. "Nothing wrong with darn. I'm a jerk."

A jerk with a sister who could potentially be kidnapped any moment. Time to cut this conversation short. Mr. Ma'am looks back up at me with a sheepish grin on his face, and I nearly forget about Ari and the two missing dead bodies from the alley less than a block from where we stand. Why couldn't have this encounter happened last week? That would've been so much more convenient. Well, until I discovered that I'm a mutant freak who can't be in contact with society. I guess when it happens doesn't really matter, because it  _can't_  happen.

"I have to go," I start to tell him.

"Can I walk you somewhere?" He asks at the same time.

We both huff awkwardly, and I open my mouth to speak but he cuts me off.

"It's getting dark," he explains. "I wouldn't feel comfortable letting you go off on your own in this neighborhood. It isn't safe."

Bullshit. This neighborhood is totally safe, otherwise I wouldn't have picked it. Then again, I did just get mugged around the corner from here. And killed two people. Suddenly the neighborhood doesn't have a whole lot going for it.

"I'll be okay," I try to tell him, but he waves me off as we start to walk down the sidewalk toward my apartment. I'm walking quickly, but he has no problem keeping pace with me - and I'm a little jealous of his long legs, because I'm already dripping in sweat from the mixture of effort and leather.

"It's no trouble, really," says Mr. Ma'am, kindness practically rolling off his face in great and glorious waves. "You never know what type of creeps could be out here wandering the streets."

I snort, an embarrassing result of nervous laughter, "We're out in the streets. Does that make us creeps? I don't even know you."

We look both ways before crossing the street, and I jog to get to the curb before he does. I hate crosswalks, even when cars are a block away. Something about them gives me the creeps, and I'm always terrified that someone's going to gun it - or I'm going to trip - or something generally bad is going to happen. We're only a block from my apartment now, and I can see a dim light on in the kitchen window. Hopefully my paranoia is nothing and Ari is sitting in the living room with her friends watching a movie, but for some reason the dull yellow light only escalates my panic.

"My name's Steve," Mr. Ma'am - or rather Steve - tells me. Tripping over a bump in the sidewalk, I stumble forward, and his hand snakes out to catch my wrist before I fall. A sliver of skin between my jacket and my gloves peeks out, and I freeze as his fingertip brushes against it. I can feel it happen, whatever  _it_  is, and I jerk my wrist out of his grasp before turning wild eyes toward him.

"Ow," he says, pulling away his hand and sticking his finger in his mouth. He studies it carefully, before smiling and shaking his wrist. "Shocked me."

I exhale in relief, "Sorry." 


	6. Chapter 6

**I DIDN'T SHOCK HIM**. I know that I didn't.

From the look on Steve's face, I think he knows it too. Oddly enough, he isn't running in the opposite direction. Quite the opposite, as he appears to be studying me closely while we walk the rest of the way to my apartment door.

"Listen..." I begin awkwardly, kicking at a puddle so I don't have to meet his inquisitive gaze.

"Steve," He smiles. Oh god, what a smile. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, and I thank God that I don't blush visably.

I exhale, "Steve. Thank you. Really. But...I should go. I have work in the morning."

"Is that what you forgot?" Steve asks, crossing his arms over his chest. The blue jacket he's wearing only emphasizes his biceps, and I can definitely see why running into his chest was like hitting a brick wall. Talk about definition.

"Sorry, what?" I ask.

He smirks, "You forgot what you forgot?"

 _Idiot_ , I chastise myself. First, I ran into a stranger on the street (literally, I might add) less than a block from where I killed two people. Then, I let him follow me home. Now he can totally tell that I've been lying and I didn't shock him and--

"If you're in some kind of trouble, you can tell me," Steve's voice is low as he checks our surroundings for eavesdroppers before turning his earnest baby blues back toward me. "I know people who can help you. Especially with the whole...shock thing."

My eyes are practically the size of baseballs. I already knew that he could feel it but having him say it out loud is so much worse. Ari is now the least of my worries, because I'm currently batshit terrified that this man is going to call the police or the loony bin or something and I'm going to end up in a lab for the rest of my life. Then again, looking at Steve now, part of me believes that he wouldn't do that to me. I don't know if it has something to do with the whole "ma'am" and "darn" thing, or the fact that he looks eerily familiar, but he doesn't seem like a man who would harm a fly.

"I was attacked," I whisper, unable to catch the words before they float out of my mouth. "Earlier. Something happened, and I'm worried about my sister."

It was like word vomit. I didn't mean for it to happen, and normally I'm a much more secretive person, but damn - I let it all out, right there, in twelve very short words. Sayonara, normal life. Way to go, Chloe, you just invited a complete and utter stranger into your chaos.

 _I swear, after this I am never watching The CW again_ , I promise myself.  _I can't handle this much drama in my life, even on TV._

Steve looks concerned - no, pissed - and he takes a step closer to me, his hand landing on my shoulder. I've got to be honest, the fact that he's touching me willingly even though he knows something is up with me (and he's totally wrong about the shock thing. I didn't shock those guys. My hands didn't shock the damn front door) is totally throwing me off. And here I convinced myself that I was going to have to go all Rogue and swear off human contact for the rest of my life. Granted, there is a leather barrier between his hand and my skin.

"What happened?" He asks, staring me down.

Opening my mouth to speak, gunshots ring out from inside the apartment building and both of our heads move simultaneously toward the source of the sounds. Steve uses one hand to guide me behind him, acting as a shield between me and whatever is happening inside the building,  whilst pulling out his cell phone and fumbling around with it for a few seconds before lifting it to his ear.

"Shots fired," he spits into the phone. "The corner of 16th Street Northwest and..." Steve looks around for a street sign. "Corcoran Street. Off Dupont Circle. Send backup."

"Are you a cop?" I ask frantically. He was following me. This whole time, that's why I ran into him. It was a setup, oh god, it was a setup. They know I killed those guys.

"I'm not a cop," he replies, pocketing his phone and running into the building.

Oh my god. He just ran  _into_  the building where someone has a gun. A very live, very real-sounding, very lethal gun. How can he not be a cop? Who the hell is this guy?

That's when it hits me like a freight train. My sister is in that building.

"Ari!" I panic, rushing after him.

By the time I burst into the stairwell, Steve is already four floors up. Clearly I need to do more cardio, maybe even crossfit, because by the time I've reached the fifth floor - my floor - I'm out of breath. Swinging open the door to the stairwell, I veer off to the right toward my apartment to find the door shattered and hanging off its hinges. Steve is standing in the middle of the room, running a hand through his hair while he speaks muffled tones into his phone.

My shoe hits a piece of the door as I cross into the apartment, heading down the small entryway toward the living room, and Steve whirls around to face me. He rushes to me, dropping the phone, and spins me around to push me back toward the hallway.

"You need to go outside," he tells me, his voice thick with emotion.

I shake my head, "No! This is my apartment--"

"Wait for me outside, please," Steve argues. I struggle against him, but he's able to move me toward the door with no effort at all.

"My sister..." Looking over my shoulder, I gasp for oxygen as I see a pair of legs twisted in an impossible position on the floor around the corner. "Ari! Artemis!" I bellow, tears springing to my eyes as I begin to lash out against Steve. "Ari!"

He grabs me by the waist and carries me into the hallway like I'm weightless. Still screaming my sister's name, I'm completely blinded by the tears pouring down my face. I kick at him - punching, screaming, crying - but he remains unmoved through my abuse. Frantically, in a moment of both clarity and insanity, I tug off one of my leather gloves and press my hand against one of his. Whatever happens (let's be real, I don't have a clue what's going on here), happens instantly, and Steve drops me like a hot coal. He falls against the wall, clutching his hand to his chest, and I take the opportunity to run into my apartment.

I wish I hadn't. I really, really,  _really_  wish I hadn't.

All of Ari's friends are dead, a single bullet wound to the center of their heads. Their blood is splattered around the disheveled room. I can't breathe, I can't even  _think_ , as I take in each one of their faces - their lifeless eyes staring back at me - before letting out a bloodcurdling scream.

My sister isn't here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams*
> 
> What do you think thus far?


	7. Chapter 7

**"OH GOD** , oh my god, oh my god..." I mumble, looking away from the dead bodies filling my living room and stumbling toward the wall. My hand hits the flat surface just as my stomach lurches, relieving itself of its contents.

Steve approaches me cautiously, still holding his hand to his chest. I can see it, just barely, the grotesque and dark outline of my fingers against the back of his hand.

"Hey," his voice is soft. I'm worried that he's going to ask me if I'm okay, because I'm certainly not okay. There are 7 dead bodies in my living room, I just vomited in front of a gorgeous stranger whose hand I somehow mutilated just by touching it, and my sister is fucking gone.

"I'm not okay," I whisper between sobs, stepping away from my own bile and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"I know. Is she...your sister..." Steve can't bring himself to say it. The massacre that happened in my living room is too horrific.

I shake my head. I'm grateful that she's alive, but I don't know how to be relieved that she's been taken. With all that's happened today, I can barely stand let alone process the fact that my baby sister has been kidnapped.

"They took her," my voice sounds ragged, my chest rising and falling heavily between sobs. The metallic scent of blood hits my nose, and I pitch forward to vomit again.

 _Stop it, Chloe_ , I scold myself, trying to pull the pieces of myself back together.  _You can handle this. You've been around gunshot wounds before, it's just blood. You need to be strong. For Ari._

This is nothing like the last time I saw a gunshot wound. It was a while ago, that day the Winter Soldier went on a rampage in DC and tore up the edge of GWU's campus. The day I met the Black Widow, Captain America, and the Falcon when we were all arrested by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents after Black Widow fired a rocket launcher on the Winter Soldier. My mind flickers back to the television announcement from earlier. Seeing his face on the screen. Someone said his name was Bucky.

It's been a month since shit went down. First the explosion in Lagos, then the bomb at the U.N. Headquarters, and the battle at the airport in Germany. The Avengers were in shambles, fighting against each other while the rest of the world grew impatient with the heroes who left so much destruction in their wake. Naturally, it was still on television. Everywhere. Because we all know that TV journalists do a fantastic job with focusing on the things that matter.

Maybe it's the memory of the day I saw the Winter Soldier, or maybe it's the newsreel covering the fiasco abroad that brings it back to me, but it's like a lightbulb flickers on in my screwed up brain. I stare up at a Steve, finally able to control my breathing through my tears, and recognition dawns on me.

"You're Captain America," I blurt out.

He hesitates, then nods.

"Can you find her?" My voice cracks at the thought of my baby sister being in the hands of whoever did this. I can hear police sirens coming toward us from the street outside, and it's only a matter of minutes before this place is swarming with uniforms. "Please," I beg him.

"Captain," A voice from the doorway draws our attention, and I'm surprised to see another familiar face standing there. The Black Widow, aka Natasha Romanoff. Our eyes meet, and hers narrow in recognition before flitting around the room and assessing the damage. She offers a sad smile whilst looking back at me. "Chloe, isn't it?"

"Wait, you know her?" Steve questions, clearly confused.

Exhaling, I nod, "Although we should really stop meeting like this."

"Police are on their way up," Natasha tells him, ignoring his steely blue gaze. "I called Sharon. The CIA hasn't gotten any intel on Hydra activity in the Metro area, so it looks like we're at square one on this. We need to get you through questioning and get a move on. Sam's going to meet us."

"Hydra?" I ask, attempting (and failing) to mask my fear. Please...not Hydra. I am not equipped to deal with this shit right now. "H-how do you know this is Hydra?"

"How long have you known about your ability?" Natasha grills me. "Have you told anyone?"

Well, that was straight and to the point. If it was uncomfortable hearing Steve talk about my little hand trick, this was like a punch to the gut. I grimace and shake my head at Natasha.

"Today," I tell her. "I just found out today. I swear, I had no idea."

Steve looks dumbfounded, "How do you know her?"

I'm tempted to make fun of him, still stuck on that small factoid, but my brain reminds me that I'm in shock and this definitely isn't the right time or place. He clearly doesn't remember me from the whole Winter Soldier thing, which is fine. I get it. I was only with Natasha on the street briefly, and - after they arrested us - they put me in a separate car from the Avengers where I was sent off to the local precinct for questioning and promptly released. It was only in our parting that Natasha asked me for my name. I definitely didn't expect her to remember it, let alone show up at my doorstep a few years later.

"The bridge," Natasha clarifies impatiently. "She was the one who patched me up on the street when Bucky...you know."

He nods and says nothing while police and FBI agents come thundering down the hallway. Natasha beckons me to her and I obey, carefully avoiding any further contact with Steve as I pass him to move out of the doorway so the investigators can get into my apartment. She reaches for my arm and I jerk it away, bumping into Steve who chuckles.

"Don't touch her skin," he warns Natasha, brandishing his injured hand. Guilt floods my veins when I see the full blackened wound, like the skin beneath my handprint suddenly shriveled up and rotted. He uses his other hand to capture my elbow and leads me a few feet from the doorway, just out of earshot from the officers setting up a patrol outside the apartment.

"It's Hydra's MO," Natasha tells Steve. "Watch a gifted, create a stimulus as bait, reel them in."

Steve nods, "You're right, but we should leave this one to S.H.I.E.L.D. We don't need to get involved in something like this, not when we're trying to lay low."

"Come on, Rogers," Natasha elbows him. "Since when are you gonna let the bad guys get away without doing something about it?"

"Since the last time I did, my friends went to war over it, and Bucky lost an arm." he replies with a straight face. "Again."

"Wait," I interrupt. "You've got to help me, Steve. Please. They have my sister."

He frowns, looking between me and Natasha before throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. Natasha smirks, clearly pleased with the fact that Steve caved so easily.

"Fine, but we keep it quiet," he instructs. "We need to stay out of the field until we're absolutely certain we know where she is, got it?"


	8. Chapter 8

**AFTER** **WE SPEAK TO THE POLICE,**  Steve and Natasha usher me out of my apartment. A news crew is already waiting outside, a camera flashing into our faces in the darkness. In one swift motion, Natasha steps up to the photographer and twists the camera out of his hand before removing the SD card and returning the device.

"We weren't here," she warns them with a low voice that gives me shivers. I would not want to be on her bad side.

Steve guides me toward a sleek black SUV parked a block up the street, and I slide into the backseat while my mind replays the scene inside my apartment over and over again. I can still smell it, the metallic tang of blood hitting my nostrils, even once it's gone. My stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought, but it's - thankfully - already empty.

"How are you holding up?" Steve asks me, careful to avoid asking me whether or not I'm okay.

I shrug, unwilling to voice how I feel. If I open my mouth, part of me thinks I'll start screaming bloody murder and the other part knows couldn't speak even if I tried. I can hardly breathe, let alone function, so coherent speech is far beyond me. I think he knows where I'm at mentally because he doesn't push it, and I'm grateful for that.

Natasha is silent behind the wheel of the car as she expertly navigates the streets of DC, taking us who-knows-where. I think we're heading north, toward the suburbs, but I can't focus on anything except the sound of my own breathing.

 _Oh shit,_  I realize.  _The suburbs._

"Mom..." I whisper, dropping my head into my hands.

Steve glances back at me from the front seat, "What's that?"

"My mother," I croak. "What do I tell her? Someone might recognize my apartment from the news..."

"Do you need to call her?" Natasha asks, keeping her eyes on the road.

"What do I even say?" I reply frantically. "I lost my baby sister? I can't--"

I can't even finish my sentence, so I don't think a phone call is going to work. Either way, Steve shakes his head and glares at Natasha before reaching a hand back to pat my knee gently. I lift my head out of my hands to meet his blue eyes.

"Are your parents in DC?" He asks me.

I nod, "Bethesda. My mom lives in Bethesda."

"Then we go to Bethesda," he tells Natasha, giving me one last look before turning around to face the front.

Natasha gives him an exasperated look, but he shrugs. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right," he tells her. "You can't tell a mother that her child has been kidnapped over the phone."

She sighs, gripping the steering wheel tight, and tosses up a hand in resignation.

"Fine, let's go to Bethesda," she says. "But call Sharon and give her an update."

 

<><><><><><>

 

I'm calm by the time we reach Bethesda, but as soon as we arrive at my mother's house I start to panic all over again. My hands and knees are shaking, and I'm forced to stuff my fists into my jacket pockets to keep the convulsions at a minimum. The twenty minute drive went by in the blink of an eye, and now I'm standing outside my mother's house quaking with fear.

Steve stands beside me, and he gives me a weak smile before I step up to ring the doorbell. He called Sharon in the car like Natasha suggested, and I'm pretty sure they're a 'thing'. If I wasn't freaking out, I'd probably be disappointed, but right now...I just don't care. Sorry, Steve. Sharon can have you.

My mom answers the door with a surprised look on her face, and her eyes instantly narrow to take in my appearance before realizing that I'm not alone. Her eyes widen with recognition when she looks at Steve, who gives her a polite nod, before she even notices Natasha.

"Chloe," she mutters. "What is going on? Why are you here with these people?"

I start to say something, but no words come out. Obviously. Perfect freaking timing to turn catatonic.

"Do you mind if we come inside, ma'am?" Steve asks, saving the day - per usual.

"Of course," my mother answers, stepping aside to allow us entry. "Come in. Please, call me Zuni."

Steve thanks her politely before going inside, followed immediately by Natasha, while I'm frozen where I stand. My mom watches me closely, so I force myself to move forward so she can open the door, and she immediately snags my arm to pull me aside.

" _Sthandwa sam_ ," she tells me, calling me her favorite term of endearment from her native tongue. "What is happening?"

I tug my arm out of her grasp, "Let's sit down."

Bustling past Steve and Natasha, I guide them into the living room and select a small armchair away from the other seats before sitting down. A single tear rolls down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. I want to take off my leather jacket and gloves, but I'm worried about my mom's reaction. Even if she wasn't always there for us after my dad died, she's definitely a hugger. Last thing I need is to accidentally hurt her too.

"Chloe..." she begins. Her slight accent grates on my nerves for once, even though it normally soothes my soul. She moved to the States after meeting my father, but not even thirty years of living in DC can erase her Wakandan accent.

"Artemis is missing," I blurt out, willing myself to look her in the eye instead of staring holes into the hardwood floor. Tears spring into my eyes, and I'm suddenly a blubbering mess all over again. "I'm so sorry,  _umama_. She was with her friends when I left, and twenty minutes later...they were all...she wasn't..."

I can't even complete a sentence before devolving into sobs once more. My mother stares at me, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, before sucking in a deep breath and turning to face Steve.

"Who have you told about this?" She asks him, a serious look on her face as she struggles to maintain composure.

"Only one other, ma'am," he tells her, clearly confused. Natasha lifts an eyebrow, her eyes narrow.

Zuni nods, "Tell no one else. Artemis will be safe so long as Chloe is protected."

 _What?_  I stare at my mother in disbelief, brushing away tears. I don't know what I expected - to be shouted at, to hear her cry, to mumble my repeated apologies for failing my sister - but this was certainly nowhere near the realm of possibilities.

"What?" I repeat aloud. " _Umama,_ they killed her friends. All of them, a bullet to the head. They have Artemis--"

"Yes," She interrupts. "But as long as they do not have you, all is not lost."

It's Natasha's turn to speak up, because both Steve and I are dumbfounded.

"Ma'am," she says slowly. "Am I correct in assuming that there is something you aren't telling us? Something your daughter doesn't know?"

A sad sigh escapes my mother's lips before she turns her gaze on me. Her vibrant green eyes burn with emotion in contrast with her dark skin, and I lean forward in anticipation for any kind of explanation as to what the hell is going on here.

"I always told you that you were special,  _sthandwa sam_ ," she tells me softly. "I expect you have discovered something new about yourself, yes? Is that why you wear gloves?"

My eyes grow wide and I nod, a breath catching in my chest. I can feel my pulse speeding up, the steady thumping beating loud in my eardrums.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning," she continues, a sad smile on her lips. "I am sorry to tell you this now, but...you were born different. In fact, you were born in Wakanda not America. After your birth, your father and I decided it was necessary to hide your identity from the world to give you a chance at a normal life...and to protect you from Wakanda's many enemies. Your father," her voice breaks while her eyes glaze over, almost as if she is caught in a memory. "He insisted I leave him, and he even arranged a false marriage for me in the States. Johannes was hired to protect us, and he did as much and more - giving us both his name and his life."

"What?!" I gasp. At this point, I am officially struggling to breathe. "No, no, you...you're lying. Dad was, he--"

"He was a wonderful parent to you," my mother interrupts. "But he was not your father. Your father is S'yan, younger brother to T'Chaka. Your cousin, T'Challa, is the king of Wakanda. You are a member of the Wakandan royal family, and it was foretold upon your birth that you would wield a great and powerful gift. A gift that would shape the world." 


	9. Chapter 9

**I CAN'T**...I can't even process what's happening right now. My mom stares at me with a mix of sadness and something akin to pride on her face, and I really want to slap her. It's true, I'm a bad daughter. I want to slap my mother. Or scream. Or cry. Something.

After spending several minutes in an awkward silence, I finally excused myself from the living room and paced around the kitchen. My mother eventually followed me, but I refused to meet her concerned gaze.

"What about Artemis?" My voice is barely louder than a whisper as I speak the words, afraid of what the answer might be. If my father wasn't actually my father, then what about my sister? "Who is her dad?"

My mother wipes a tear away from her eyes and smiles, "You are both daughters of S'yan."

I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding, and relief floods through my veins. Ari is my sister no matter who her father is, but there's something reassuring about knowing that we are in this together. We have both been lied to about our parentage.

"I meant what I said earlier, Chloe," Zuni says, watching me carefully. "Artemis will be safe as long as our enemies do not have you. I do not believe they will harm her for fear of angering T'Challa. We must keep your location a secret and inform your cousin of the situation. He will find Artemis. It is best if you remain here."

"With all due respect, ma'am," Steve interrupts, walking into the kitchen along with Natasha. "Staying here is a bad idea. Whoever is responsible for Artemis' disappearance clearly knew Chloe. She'll be a target as long as she's in DC."

My mother frowns, "And what do you propose?"

"We have connections in S.H.I.E.L.D," Natasha interjects. "We could facilitate her transfer to a safe location, keep her under guard."

I scoff, "So throw me into a glorified prison? No thank you. Whoever took my sister wants me, right? I'm not going to sit around and wait for them to find me. I want to help get Ari back."

" _Sthandwa sam_ ," my mom croons, "That is not wise. There are enemies everywhere - even in S.H.I.E.L.D. The fewer people who are involved, the better. Even telling these two is a risk. No, your cousin--"

"I'm not waiting around for someone else to take care of this," I interject, firmly planting my hands on my hips. I glance at Steve and Natasha hoping they'll back me up, and I'm surprised when Steve of all people nods.

"T'Challa is a friend," he says. That earns a look of shock from my mother, and I'm glad to see that she lets him continue. "If we aren't involving S.H.I.E.L.D, then - with all due respect - I'd like to see this one through to the end."

Natasha nods in agreement, and I can't help but smile at my two new friends. I didn't expect Steve to support me given his hesitation to get involved, but I guess that's my mistake for thinking Captain America doesn't follow through on a promise. I get the feeling that when Steve Rogers does something, he  _does_ something. No half-assing allowed.

"So what's the plan?" I ask, tucking a piece of my black and violet hair behind my ears.

My mother grimaces, "We go to Wakanda."

 

<><><><><><>

 

It's been ten hours since we left my mother's house in Bethesda, Maryland. Ten and a half hours since Steve and I discovered the massacre at my apartment and my sister's kidnapping. Twelve hours since I killed two men with my bare hands.

Needless to say, no one knows about that last one. I'd like to keep it that way. 

I tried to sleep on the flight to Wakanda, but the seats aren't exactly conducive to a good night's sleep. Then again, neither are the horrific nightmares flickering behind my eyelids every time they slide shut.

After much deliberation, we managed to leave without my mother - opting to travel light on a quinjet operated by Natasha. Steve spent half the flight in the copilot's seat with her and the other half watching me silently. He tried to talk a few times, but what do you say to someone who just found out that 1) she's a freak 2) her sister has been kidnapped 3) her father wasn't really her father and, oh yeah, 4) she's a fricking royal.

Short answer? You don't say anything.

Now, I'm standing outside the quinjet in who-knows-where surrounded by what definitely isn't the miles of endless jungle it appeared to be from the sky with my hair plastered to my forehead as I sweat through my layers in the Wakandan heat. Let me just say, this climate is not a leather-wearing climate.

Natasha smirks at me before passing a hair tie which I gratefully use to twist my long hair up on top of my head. Somehow, her red hair is still in perfect condition, falling in loose waves to her shoulders, but she's also removed her jacket in favor of jeans and a loose blouse. Steve beckons us to follow him through a sliding metal door, and we're instantly greeted by the blissful cool of air conditioning.

The sweat on the back of my neck chills, and I get goosebumps as I take in my surroundings. We're in a modern and sleek room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the countryside, and everything looks far more technological and expensive than I could've possibly imagined. I guess when I thought about Wakanda, I didn't know what to expect. Poor? Remote? No one could've prepared me for this. 

A young man approaches us, greeting Steve and Natasha with a friendly smile. He's wearing a simple navy tunic with black trousers, and I can't help but notice the reservation in his eyes. He can't be much older than me, but the man in front of me is one who carries a heavier burden than I could possibly imagine. After releasing Steve from a welcoming handshake, he turns to me with a formal nod.

"Hello, Chloe," he says. "I am your cousin, T'Challa." 


	10. Chapter 10

**AFTER MEETING MY COUSIN T'CHALLA**  — and totally not being weird about the fact that he's a king — I'm grateful to be shown to a room where I can rest. Or, as I like to call it, lay on the bed in horrific silence while remembering everything from the past twelve hours. Very relaxing.

Damn. Twelve hours. I can't even wrap my brain around the concept, which is why I keep thinking about it. Twelve hours is the amount of sleep I  _wish_  I could get each night. Twelve hours is nothing. A blink of an eye. Half a freaking day in a lifetime of days. I've done the math in my head, and I've been alive for over 200,000 hours. All of it - everything I thought I knew - has been changed in a fraction of that time. I don't know how I'm supposed to sleep, let alone cope, with this knowledge.

So, quite frankly, I don't plan on it.

Sleeping, that is. I know I'll have to cope eventually, whether I want to or not. I suspect my mother has contacted my birth father by now, meaning I'll have to talk to him eventually too. Also whether I want to or not. Which I don't.

With a sigh, I sit up and swing my legs off the side of the bed. My leather gloves are on the side table, so I snag them and pull them on while heading toward the door. I probably shouldn't go wandering around in a strange place, but I can't sit here another minute stewing in my own thoughts.

It's the middle of the afternoon in Wakanda, so the building is filled with people. It's eerily quiet as they work, with only a few voices speaking in hushed tones to one another as they go about their daily tasks. I stick to the wall, watching as people in white uniforms work on large computer screens that are far more technologically advanced than anything I've seen. I have no idea what kind of compound we're in, but it's far beyond your typical government building.

 _Maybe I could get used to being royalty here_ , I can't help but think with a smirk.

Rounding a corner, I step into a narrow hallway with dim lighting. I can see a room filled with glass ahead, and it looks like there are large black electrical panels with glowing yellow circuitry adorning the wall. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I slowly approach before hearing a familiar voice.

Steve.

Of course, the super soldier wouldn't need sleep. It is the afternoon, and I bet he's used to going days on end without a solid night of rest. I assumed he would be meeting with T'Challa now, so I press myself against the wall and listen carefully to the conversation. If they're talking about me or my sister, I'd like to know what's going on even if they don't intend on keeping me in the loop.

"It feels like we were just here yesterday," Steve's voice floats through the hallway. "I can't believe it's already been a month."

There's a hint of sadness in his tone, and I frown at the thought.

"I got everyone out. Sam, Clint, Wanda, Scott. They're all doing their own thing now, laying low," he continues. "It's just me and Natasha now. Well, and Sharon." I can hear the smile in his voice. Sharon is the girlfriend, the one Natasha told me is in the CIA.

Steve sighs heavily, followed by the sound of his hand thumping against something solid.

"I miss you, Buck. It's not the same. When I woke up from the ice, at least I had a mission. Something to finish. More than that...I found a team. Friends. It made everything easier. Now, it's just...I'm just..."

His voice trails, and he falls silent. I bite my lip to remind myself to breathe quietly, waiting a few minutes in the quiet of the room before I decide to take a few steps forward. Peeking around the corner, the full room comes into view. Metal beams move up to the ceiling which is made of giant glass panels, allowing the sunlight to stream into the now-empty room. The few workstations scattered around the room are unoccupied, but I can see various data points streaming across the screens facing me.

A large cylinder sits in the center of the room, and I hazard a step toward it now that I know Steve has left. My heart thumps loudly against my chest, the anticipation of whatever is in that container driving me forward and making me wish I could run away. As I step closer, I can see that the front of the cylinder is comprised entirely of clear glass, allowing me to see its contents. My eyes land on a man's hand resting by his thigh, and I take another shaky step forward to allow my gaze to travel up to his face.

A gasp slips through my lips as I stare at his face. Long brown hair is pushed back out of his eyes, and a light beard covers his jaw. His cheek sports a single red gash, indication of a recent injury, and his eyes are closed like he's sleeping.

But it's more than that. He's not just...sleeping. He looks...frozen.

Frozen in a room in Wakanda is the man whose eyes I met during the attack on DC. The Winter Soldier. The one who hesitated when he saw me.

Bucky.


	11. Chapter 11

"Chloe?"

Steve's voice breaks my thought process, drawing my attention away from the unconscious - or dead - man in front of me. I can't help but shiver at the thought that he might be dead, although I'm not quite certain why it would bother me so much. He did nearly kill me in DC - and shot Natasha - so it's not like he's all that innocent.

"What are you doing in here?" He asks, taking a step toward me.

His blue eyes look concerned, and a little confused, as he approaches me where I stand in front of Bucky.

"I couldn't sleep," I admit sheepishly.

Steve smiles, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly as he glances from me to Bucky, "Me neither."

We stand in silence for a moment, and I debate whether or not I should tell Steve that I overheard his conversation. I open my mouth to speak and close it, opting to keep that tidbit to myself. I may have intended to eavesdrop on Steve and T'Challa, but I feel guilty about intruding on what seems to have been a private moment.

"Is he..." My voice is soft as I turn back to face the brown-haired man in the cylinder. "Is he alive?" 

Steve nods, pausing a moment before he speaks, "Sometimes I like to come in here and talk to him. I know he can't hear me, but it's...it's just not the same without him."

"Peaceful," I continue.

"Mhmm. And therapeutic," Steve adds. "He's the only person I ever trusted with all of my secrets. He was my best friend in the 40s, and he's my best friend now."

My eyes grow wide at his words, "So it's true? He's the same James Buchanan Barnes? The one who fought with you in the Howling Commandos?"

"The one and only," he says with a sad smile. I can see the memories flashing before his eyes, and suddenly I feel guilty for standing here with him.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "It must be--"

"Don't be," Steve reassures me, lifting his hand to squeeze my shoulder. For a moment, I forget about my new...ability...and revel in the sensation. So much has happened in the last day, that it's nice to have a friend. "I'll leave you two alone."

My forehead furrows in confusion while Steve drops his hand and sticks it into his pocket.

_What? Why is he leaving us alone?_

His blue eyes linger on Bucky's face before turning to me. I can see sadness in their depths, yes, but also something I didn't notice before. Hope. It's clear that Steve misses his best friend, desperately, but it's also apparent that he believes that he can get his best friend back. Hell, maybe he already has.

"He's a good listener," he tells me as if reading my mind. "Always has been."

Just like that, he disappears as noiselessly as he arrived. I stare at the doorway for a moment, expecting him or someone else to come into the room and tell me to leave, but after a few seconds nothing happens. I'm left alone in a room with The Winter Soldier.

 _No, I'm in a room with James Buchanan Barnes_ , I tell myself.

I've seen the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, because who hasn't, so I remember the story of their friendship well. I took Ari to the exhibit with me, hoping she would take an interest in something outside of clothes and boys, and she spent the whole time obsessing over the replica of Captain America's uniform and how muscular he must've been. Typical.

I never stopped for the Bucky Barnes memorial - other than briefly skimming the inscription - and suddenly I feel guilty for not giving this man more attention. Not only did he serve in World War II, he gave his life for his friend only to have it stolen away from him. Hydra made him a puppet, a slave to their cruel intentions, and I can't help but feel horrible at the thought.

 _He deserves so much more than this_.

Checking over my shoulder once more, I reassure myself that I'm alone in the room before clearing my throat gently. The sleeping man in front of me still hasn't moved, obviously, but I'm jittery with nerves at the thought of speaking to him. My thoughts drift back to our first encounter in DC, and the memory of his blue eyes locking onto mine causes me to bite my lip as I take a deep breath.

"Hi, Bucky," I say quietly. "You...um...you probably don't remember me, but my name is Chloe. We met in, well...you almost killed me a few years ago. Really glad you didn't, by the way. Thanks."

Swallowing, I grab a nearby chair and pull it in front of the glass cylinder before plopping down.

"I, um...Steve told me I should talk to you," I say, toying with my leather gloves. Pulling them off, I stuff them in my pocket and run a hand through my hair. "I don't know what to say. It's...it's been a bad day. The worst day, actually, worse than the day we met."

Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away with my fingertips, "My mom lied to me. My dad isn't my dad, and apparently my real father is still alive. My sister was kidnapped, and her friends were killed in my apartment."

More tears roll down my cheek and I choke back a sob, "And I...I, um...I killed two men. I didn't mean to. It-it was an accident...I didn't mean to..."


	12. Chapter 12

Two weeks have passed since I arrived in Wakanda with Steve and Natasha, and it's been two weeks since I've seen my sister, my mother, or my home. Natasha left on a mission after the first few days, and she's stayed away even though it was only supposed to take two days. Steve tells me that she's probably with Bruce Banner, also known as The Hulk, or visiting Clint Barton at his family's farm.

God, I'm so jealous. The normalcy of it. And yes, I know that the Black Widow can hardly be called normal, but here I am stuck in a government compound with a super soldier who is nearly a century old, another one who is currently a popsicle, and my cousin - the king - who has barely said more than ten words to me since the day we met. I gather that T'Challa is the strong and silent type, but seriously dude. We're supposed to be family.

Luckily, I haven't run into my father yet. Whether or not he knows I'm here, I'm not sure, but I've been dreading the encounter. I have no problem with that family staying silent.

I spend most of my days in the medical ward while they run a variety of tests on me. Thus far, they've confirmed that my abilities are heavily tied to my emotions. My skin, while it is a conduit, is safe to touch unless I grow irritable, frightened, or angry, and I take the news as a happy sign that I can stop wearing so many layers.

They've issued me a standard uniform, since all of my clothes are still back in my apartment in DC, and I pull on the white long-sleeved tunic over my matching white tank top and trousers. It's reminiscent of scrubs, but far more comfortable and - let's face it - more flattering. I won't lie though, a part of me feels like I should be doing Tai Chi in a meadow somewhere, not running medical tests in a lab.

When I'm not on the treadmill, hooked up to wires, or sitting in some sort of scanner, the rest of my waking hours are actually spent talking to Bucky. Steve was right - it's therapeutic to tell him about my day, about the stress of discovering my new abilities, about Ari. Especially about Ari. I'm terrified for my sister, and I wake up screaming each night with fresh nightmares. They blend together the men in the alley and the massacre in my apartment, and sometimes I find my dream self gripping the dead body of my baby sister.

What I don't tell Bucky is that I'm the one who kills her. In every dream, I'm the monster.

I'm sitting on the floor in front of the glass-fronted cylinder, my gloves discarded on the floor beside me, while I tug at a string hanging from the edge of my trousers. I've run out of things to say to Bucky, so lately I've been spending my time here in silence. It's peaceful to know that I'm not alone without any sort of pressure to keep my walls up. These days, I spend more time worrying about my emotions hurting someone than actually dealing with them, and the stress is taking it's toll on me physically. I can't sleep. I barely eat. Even Steve seems concerned with my health and well-being, even though I repeatedly tell him that I spend nearly every day surrounded by doctors.

Footsteps echo through the hallway leading into the room, and I turn my head to see T'Challa standing there. He gives me a warm smile, but it doesn't meet his dark eyes. The weight of a kingdom sits heavy upon his shoulders, and I know he misses his father. From what I've gathered from the staff and the internet, my uncle was a great man.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, crossing the room toward me before carefully lowering himself to the ground so we sit shoulder to shoulder.

I swallow, glancing back at Bucky before answering.

"Truthfully?" I ask. T'Challa nods, so I decide to tell him the truth. "It's not good."

"The physicians tell me they are making progress," he replies. "With practice, you should be able to control your gift."

I snort, "Gift? This isn't a gift. It's a curse."

"We fear that which we do not understand, Chloe," T'Challa tells me with a wry smile. "In time, I believe that your gift may prove to change the world."

I narrow my eyes at him, studying his features, before turning my attention back to the string dangling from the hem of my trousers. Wrapping it around one finger, I tug and the string snaps instantly. We sit in silence for a few moments longer before I let out a deep breath.

"Do you believe in the prophecy?" I ask him earnestly.

He pauses, "I believe in our ability to shape our own futures. You have been given a gift, but it is your choice whether or not you use it and how."

Unable to think of a response, I stare down at my feet until T'Challa stands and offers me a hand. My first instinct is to accept it, but I recoil instantly. My gloves are still on the floor next to me, and I don't want to risk hurting him. However, his reflexes are too quick, and he grasps my hand firmly before I can tug it away and pulls me to my feet.

The second I'm up, a siren pierces the air. Metal doors clang shut at every exit to the room, effectively sealing us in as I pull my hand from his. T'Challa sprints to a computer monitor and taps a few rapid keystrokes, only to have the system block his access. He swears under his breath, slamming his fist into the desk.

"What's happening?" I demand.

"The system is on high alert," he explains, running a hand across the back of his neck. "The compound is under attack, and they have managed to lockdown the server."

My eyes grow wide with fear, "What does that mean? What do we do?"

"It means we are stuck here," T'Challa replies, causing my anxiety level to skyrocket. "It also means that, without the computer regulating the stasis chamber, Mr. Barnes will die unless we revive him." 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: This was written in 2016 pre-Black Panther, so...I'm still pretty proud of this. Haha.

This can't be happening.

"Get back," T'Challa commands, moving to a panel attached to Bucky's cryostasis chamber.

This isn't real. None of this is real.

"Chloe."

After everything that's happened in the last two weeks, finding out I have some sort of freakish superpower, finding out about my real father, finding out that I'm fricking royalty. Now, I'm stuck in a room with the King of Wakanda and the Winter Soldier, who - unironically - is about to become distinctly un-winter-like when T'Challa takes him out of the human popsicle machine.

"Chloe!" He grabs my arms, shaking me gently until my eyes snap back into focus.

I stare at him blankly, "What?"

"You need to move. I want you to stand on the other side of the room," he points to an empty desk. "Hide under there, and stay quiet."

"I don't--"

"Do it," he commands.

Even though I just met him, the tone of his voice tells me that now is not the time to argue with a king, so I do as he says. The chamber that holds Bucky begins to hiss as it pressurizes, oxygen and gentle heat flooding the cylinder. I curl up under the desk on the opposite side of the large room, peeking out from around the corner of the desk as T'Challa continues pressing buttons to implement a manual override. He hesitates for a moment, his eyes meeting mine with a worried look, before pressing a final button that causes the glass to slide up from the front of the cylinder.

I duck my head back under the desk and rest it against the cold metal. My heartbeat thuds against my chest cavity like a hammer, the sound intensifying my anxiety as the alarm continues to blare in the background. The room is otherwise silent, only the sound of T'Challa's breathing lets me know that I'm not alone.

_Ba-bumm._

My heart slams against my throat.

 _Ba-bumm_.

A footstep hits the ground. I'm tempted to look out from my hiding place, but I wait.

_Ba-bumm._

Another heartbeat.

 _Ba-bumm_.

"Mr. Barnes?" T'Challa's voice is slow and even, a thread of hesitancy woven through it, and curiosity gets the best of me so I look out.

_Ba-bumm._

All I can see is T'Challa, his back turned to me, and his muscles tensed. A second passes, then everything moves far too quickly for my eyes to follow. A hand shoots forward, grasping T'Challa by the neck, and pushing him back across the room until his back connects with a sickening thud against the wall.

"James," he breathes, his voice raspy as the hand restricts his flow of oxygen.

He sees his opportunity and fights back, easily landing a few blows until the roles are reversed. My eyes widen when I see Bucky pinned against the wall, and I stifle a gasp. His brown hair is wild around his face, blue eyes frantically searching the room for some kind of answer, while T'Challa presses his forearm into his throat. No longer equipped with his metal arm, Bucky grabs at T'Challa with his right arm.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his face contorted in what appears to be unspeakable pain, before opening them once more. For a second, his countenance changes. The rage and darkness is replaced with confusion, and he stares blankly at T'Challa.

"...T'Challa?" He croaks, his arm relaxing. "What..."

Howling in pain, he grits his teeth as his eyes close once more. Opening them, I can see the unfortunate truth. His blue eyes have turned dark once more, and he takes advantage of T'Challa's hesitation to pull him closer and smash his head into my cousin's nose. They clash once more, Bucky's strength lending him a power that sends fear quaking through my entire body. Without his metal arm, however, he is no match to T'Challa's agility and grace. Only when my cousin hesitates is Bucky able to land a forceful blow, knocking T'Challa backward into several workstations.

T'Challa is holding back, I realize, afraid to hurt the man who has little control over his actions. Waking up from the ice must have triggered some sort of memory of Hydra, taking him back into his Winter Soldier mentality once more. Bucky gasps, falling to his knees as he clutches his head. His blue eyes flash open, fear and pain coursing through them. It's clear that whatever is happening, he's flickering between the two personalities. His mind is fighting for control, fighting to remember himself, and it's horrifying to witness.

It's then that he meets my gaze, his blue eyes peering into mine almost as if he's looking into my very soul. I freeze, unable to look away, and my breath catches in my throat. He winces again, the tell-tale sign that he's about to revert back to the Winter Soldier, and my eyes grow wide with fear. Angry eyes flash open once more, his face portraying his inner struggle as he fights to keep his own mind under control, and they glare at me.

"I...I remember you," he spits out, gritting his teeth while he curls into himself. His hand clutches at his temple as he bites back a cry of pain. "I...I know you." 


	14. Chapter 14

Bucky pushes himself off the ground and moves toward me, his eyes flashing between rage and pain. I crawl out of my hiding spot as fast as my body will carry me and scramble to my feet. The room is completely trashed - desks are toppled, computers shattered, and T'Challa is unconscious amongst the rubble. I can't see any major wounds from where I stand, so I'm assuming he must've hit his head. Hard.

Fear constricts my throat as Bucky takes another labored step toward me, and I mirror his action whilst taking a step backward. Soon, my back hits the wall and I realize I'm trapped.

_Oh, shit._

"B-Bucky," I stammer, clenching my hands into tight fists as I slide to my left.

He grimaces, "How do you know my name?"

"You're J-James Buchanan Barnes," I explain hastily, trying desperately to trigger his memory, as he takes another menacing step forward. "Your best friend is Steve Rogers. I know Steve."

Confusion clouds his brilliant blue eyes, and he shakes his head as if attempting to shake it away. I've slid so far to my left that I've hit another wall, meaning I'm now trapped in the corner of the room with the Winter Soldier walking toward me.

"P-please," I beg him, holding up my hands in surrender. "Please don't hurt me."

"Why would I hurt you?" He looks offended by the question then exhales slowly, his eyes widening in recognition. "This-this is Wakanda. I'm in Wakanda."

I nod, and he continues, "Where is Steve?"

"I don't know," My voice trembles with fear. He's now standing less than a foot in front of me, and even without his metal arm I know he could kill me with his bare hand. "The compound is in lockdown. There's...there's been some kind of attack." I glance at T'Challa, who has begun to shift on the floor as he regains consciousness. "We had to wake you up to save you."

"We?" He lifts an eyebrow, then follows my gaze over to my cousin.

Almost as if the presence of a nearly-active threat is a trigger, his cold blue eyes flicker back to me as they darken.

"This is a trap," he mutters. "You're here to kill me."

I shake my head, "No, Bucky. We're friends of Steve's."

"Don't lie to me," he spits out, closing the gap between us as he wraps his hand around my throat. "He tried to kill me," His head jerks toward T'Challa, who is now pushing himself off the ground.

Panic rises in my chest, and I gasp for air while clawing against his arm. I can't do anything except flail helplessly, unable to match his strength, as black spots begin to dot my vision. As much as I've wished for my ability to disappear over the past two weeks, now would be a great time for it to kick in.

He drops me suddenly, hissing as he pulls his arm into his chest like he's been stung by something, and I can't help but thank God for the timing as I slump to the floor. My ability - my defense mechanism - did the same thing to Bucky that it did to Steve, the effects probably lessened by their serum-enhanced bodies, and I can see the grotesque blackened flesh of his palm as he backs away from me.

"Oh, god. What have I done?" He looks up at me in horror, and guilt burns through me like a wildfire. His eyes are a clear blue, no longer darkened, and I know that Bucky is in control.

"I'm sorry," I cough, sucking in oxygen as I gently hold my neck. "I didn't mean--"

He ignores me, his eyes wide with shock, "I could've killed you. I told Steve I wanted to stay under, I told him that don't have control over my own mind. I--"

T'Challa inches toward him, ready to pounce, and I hold up a hand to stop him. Bucky whirls around to face him, taking in the destruction of the room around him, as well as the disheveled appearance of the king of Wakanda.

"It wasn't me," he murmurs, almost like he's reassuring himself of that fact more than anything. "It wasn't me."

Gunshots erupt in the distance, and we all whirl around to face the direction from which they came. I am not equipped to fight anyone who is armed, and my panic causes a lump to form in my throat as I whimper. Bucky glances back at me, his blue eyes marked with what appears to be concern as he looks from me then back toward the source of the gunfire. T'Challa watches him closely, not yet satisfied that the Winter Soldier won't make a second appearance.

"James..." he says hesitantly, causing Bucky's eyes to flicker toward him.

Bucky relaxes ever-so-slightly, his fist clenching and unclenching as he nods at T'Challa. He's in control. Which is really good timing, considering the gunshots are now right outside the room. An explosion sounds, and I cower against the wall - unfortunately, bravery is not currently my forte - covering my mouth as I scream while both T'Challa and Bucky flinch. Whatever is happening outside the room is about to happen inside of it.

"Chloe, stay behind me," Bucky murmurs, positioning himself between me and the door opposite us.

I nod frantically, even though he can't see me, and press my spine further against the wall. If only my defensive ability could've been something a little more useful, ya know, like invisibility or invincibility.

 _Wait..._ My brain freezes, rewinding a few seconds.  _How does Bucky Barnes know my name?_


	15. Chapter 15

The door opens with a bang, filling the room with smoke as armed invaders rush in. It's impossible to see or hear anything as my senses are utterly overwhelmed by all that is happened. All I can see of Bucky is the sliver of silver on his left shoulder peeking out from the black cap placed on the end of his missing bionic arm.

T'Challa wastes no time in engaging, gracefully moving around the room as he disarms and disables the invading soldiers one at a time. Bucky is less fluid as his fighting style significantly impaired by the loss of his arm, meaning he no longer can shield himself from bullets or rely on the crippling strength the metal arm provided. However, even without it, he is no less terrifying to watch in battle.

He ducks under the arm of one of the soldiers, stepping behind him and snaking his right arm around the soldier's neck before twisting it with a sickening crack. Another takes his place only to receive an elbow to the nose before Bucky grabs the knife from the sheath on the man's waist and jabs it into his knee. I cringe at the cry of pain, watching - frozen in place - while Bucky twists the knife before pulling it out and effortlessly sliding it across the man's neck like his skin is butter.

Two soldiers advance next, and a third takes advantage of Bucky's distracted state to move toward me. My breath hitches in my chest as the man throws his first punch, connecting with my cheekbone, and sends me into the wall. I can hardly see straight as he grabs my arms and connects his knee with my ribcage, knocking the wind from my chest, and I collapse to the ground.

Luckily, he comes with me. Once I'm able to catch my breath, ignoring the pain in my stomach, I roll the man off me only to see that he's dead. His contact with my skin - while excruciating for me - was enough for my handy-dandy defense mechanism to work.

I never thought I'd be so glad to be a freak.

Scrambling to my feet, I narrowly avoid gunfire as I watch Bucky being overpowered by three soldiers. His serum-enhanced strength gives him enough power to ward off the brunt of their attacks, but - without his arm - his left side is unguarded and susceptible to their blows. He disarms one of the men without blinking, his body moving so fast that I can hardly watch, before knocking another one unconscious. However, it is the third soldier who takes advantage of an opening and drives her knife into his side.

"Bucky!" I cry, rushing forward only to be caught by another soldier.

His blue eyes flash toward me, and I know instantly that I've made a mistake in distracting him. The woman whirls around to deliver a solid kick to his chest, slamming him back into the wall, before advancing and pressing her knife into his throat.

I push against the man who is holding me without any success, my eyes wild as I watch Bucky stare down the woman. T'Challa is currently occupied with several men, so he is unable to help, which means it's on me.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

Raising my hand, I push my palm into the face of the man holding me back and force him away. He screams in pain as I do so, crumpling to the floor in an instant, while I drag myself out of his arms and tackle the woman holding a knife to Bucky's throat.

I don't know what caused me to do it. Something about him - whether it's the fact that he's become my confidante over the past few weeks...even though he doesn't know it or how he somehow knows my name - won't let me stand idly by while he is taken by these assholes. I don't know why they're here or what they came for, but my body jumps into action before my mind can catch up.

The woman recovers quickly, her superior training overtaking my novice blows in seconds, and suddenly it's me on the floor with a knife to my throat. My arms are trapped beneath her legs, and none of my skin is exposed to hers.

 _Oh god. This was a bad idea_.

"Let her go," Bucky growls, hazarding a step toward us. "I'll go with you, just...let her go."

She laughs, "What good does that do?" Sneering, her eyes land where Bucky's missing arm should be. "You're damaged goods."

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

The blade pinches the skin of my neck, and I can feel a trickle of blood roll down my skin. This really needs to stop happening to me. Trying not to make any sudden movements, I shift my wrist to the side in an attempt to make it smaller so I can squeeze my arm out from where she's trapped it by my side.

"You don't know?" The woman replies with a smirk. "Your sister is waiting for you."

Ari's name does exactly what you'd think it would do. It pisses me off. So much so, in fact, that I'm able to free my right arm from its prison and latch my hand around the woman's wrist. The blade is still pressed to my throat, and I struggle to keep her from plunging it into my neck. Within seconds, however, her face turns from determination to shock as her eyes roll back in her head and she collapses on top of me.

Her knife clatters to the ground, scratching my cheek as it falls, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

_She's dead._


	16. Chapter 16

The dust settles in the room once it's all over, and I let my head rest on the floor for a moment. It's hard to breath, so I try to push the dead woman off of me. Bucky helps, rolling her body to the side, and I gasp as delicious oxygen fills my lungs.

He reaches a hand out to me, his forearm still decorated with the marred black imprint of my handprint, and I stare up at him in disbelief.

 _How is he not flinching away from me?_ I can't help but wonder.  _I just killed someone just by_ _touching_ _her, and now he's offering me his hand?_

"Chloe," his voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Hmm?" I ask, staring up at him.

His hand is still stretched toward me. I shake my head, ignoring his help, and push myself upright. I'm a little dizzy, so I take a moment to catch my bearings before I even attempt to stand.

"Are you alright?" T'Challa asks both of us as he steps around the bodies sprinkling the ground. He looks a little worse for wear, but he seems completely unscathed aside from a small gash on his forehead.

Footsteps come thundering down the corridor toward us, and Bucky withdraws his hand to clench it tightly into a powerful fist. T'Challa takes a step toward the side of the room, preparing to launch himself at the next person who walks through the door, while I scramble to my feet. Bucky positions himself in front of me once more, and I'm not exactly ready to complain. Round one was bad enough, I don't think I can handle round two.

"Did I miss anything?" Steve's voice rings out as he bursts in, skidding to a halt to take in the carnage of the room.

His blue eyes are wide, and he's covered in dirt and blood - none of which appears to be his own. With his shield strapped to his arm, his grey t-shirt and jacket have definitely seen better days. I'm guessing he also received a visit from whoever these guys are, and I'm glad he made it out okay.

That's when his gaze lands on Bucky. The range of emotions rippling across his face is unlike anything I've ever seen - a mixture of fear, happiness, relief, and nostalgia - as he takes in the sight of his best friend. Bucky's shoulders relax ever-so-slightly, and he exhales forcibly before allowing his fist to unclench.

"Always late to the party, punk," he says to Steve.

I didn't expect the playful tone that colors his voice, and I don't think Steve did either. He takes a moment before a grin explodes across his features.

"It's good to see you again, Buck," Steve replies, stepping forward to clap Bucky on the back. "Awake, that is."

Bucky gives him a tight-lipped smile, his expression still guarded.

"How long has it been?" He asks. "I take it you guys haven't figured out--"

"No," Steve interrupts, looking a little crestfallen. "It's only been just over a month."

I wrap my arms around myself, taking a step toward T'Challa to leave them alone before Bucky's blue eyes flicker toward me.

"Right," Steve follows Bucky's gaze. "This is Chloe."

Bucky stares at me a moment longer before turning back to his best friend, "I know. We've met before."

My eyes grow wide, and Steve's jaw drops open. The room feels a bit cooler, suddenly, and I can feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. I sincerely hope he couldn't hear me while I was talking to him when he was frozen, because that is just way beyond what I am comfortable with. Not only is it supremely weird, considering he was a human icicle who was contained in an air-tight cylinder, I don't want to even imagine that he heard all of the things I admitted to him. Thankfully, my skin is dark enough that they probably can't see the flush that is burning through my cheeks right now.

"She was in D.C.," Bucky explains. "With Natasha. I remember her helping after I..."

His voice trails, and I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding. I'm tempted to still ask him if he could hear me while he was under ice, but honestly...I don't want to know. If he's not saying anything about it, I am definitely not going to bring it up. No thank you. Plus, that might explain why he remembers my face, but it sure as hell doesn't address how he knows my name.

Steve seems satisfied with that answer, and he turns to T'Challa to begin asking him about the unconscious men scattered on the floor. It's clear that Wakanda isn't a safe place for Bucky right now - or for me - and I tune them out as they begin to talk about what should happen next.

Bucky appears to do the same, running a hand over the black cap stretched over the remnants of his metal arm, whilst staring at the ground. I frown at my handprint on his forearm, and he gives me a sheepish grin as if he knew I was staring.

"It doesn't hurt," he reassures me, and suddenly my cheeks are on fire again. "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Two weeks," I reply with a sigh.

"Really?" He looks surprised.

I can't help but shrug, "It's been a long two weeks."


	17. Chapter 17

After the invasion - or whatever you want to call it - life in Wakanda has been on edge, to say the least. T'Challa is preoccupied with finding out how the hell those guys broke into the compound, understandably so, and he also had the less-than-pleasant job of informing the families of the few Wakandans who lost their lives in the attack.

Luckily, Steve decided to stay at the compound a little longer than originally planned so he could lend a hand, and rumor has it Natasha is on her way back as well. And Bucky...well...he's still awake.

I can't decide if I'm happy about that yet.

"C'mon, Chloe," Steve urges. "Just throw a punch."

I groan, rolling my eyes at the blonde supersoldier. "I don't want to do this, Steve. I don't punch. I don't hurt people."

"You're not going to hurt me," he insists.

"That's not what I meant," I snap at him. "I'd rather not know how to break someone's nose, okay? It's not exactly what I'd categorize as critical life skills, especially now that I have to worry about killing people by skin-to-skin contact. Contrary to popular belief, I don't want to be a lethal weapon. It doesn't sound like fun."

Bucky clears his throat from the corner of the training room, and my hands fly to my mouth as my eyes widen in embarrassment.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry...that's not what I...I'm..." I stutter.

The corner of his mouth quirks up at me, and he takes another swing at the punching bag he's been working on. It flies upon contact, the chains rattling, and I half-expect it to come flying from the ceiling.

"It's okay," he replies, throwing another punch.

Since the attack, we've been spending a lot of time in the training room. Up until now, Steve had both of us working on treadmills and lifting weights, although I highly doubt Bucky needs or wants Mr. Patriotism to be his cheerleader-slash-coach. Today, Steve decided that it's time to teach me self-defense, and Bucky relegated himself to bagwork. Even though he still only has one arm, since his metal arm has yet to be replaced, his skills are terrifying to watch.

Let's just say I've gotten distracted by his bicep more than once.

"Chloe," Steve says with a sigh. "We just want to make sure you're protected. It's one thing to be able to defend yourself with your abilities, but - until you have them under control - I think it's a good idea to have a backup plan."

I shrug, "I have a backup plan. Back the hell up and stay behind Bucky."

Bucky snorts from his corner of the room, and Steve shakes his head while stifling a laugh. He wants to laugh at me, I know it, but he's doing his best to keep his serious face in check. When Captain America means business, he means business.

I look down at my hands which are encased in black boxing gloves and sigh. It's been three weeks since my sister was kidnapped, and it's frustrating as hell to know that I'm still here - hiding - while nothing is being done to find her. The nightmares have yet to subside, and now the visions of Ari's friends in a bloody mess around my living room are now supplemented by dreams of the woman I killed, with her knife at my throat. Sometimes I kill her first, other times I'm not so lucky. Either way, I've taken to sleeping with the light on and drinking lots of coffee. It's not the healthiest of habits, but I don't really see another solution. Eventually, I'm hoping that I'll be exhausted enough to sleep the entire night.

Maybe I should start taking Steve's training more seriously so I can get there faster.

"Self-defense is important, Chloe," Steve says, failing to hide a smile. "You don't have to use it if you don't want to, but it's good to know you  _can_  if necessary."

"I get that," I reply. "It's just...it doesn't sit well with me. I've spent most of my life learning how to help people, make them feel better. I don't want to learn how to do the opposite."

"Maybe you don't have to," Bucky interrupts, turning away from the punching bag he's demolished.

Steve lifts an eyebrow, "What do you have in mind?"

"You want her to learn self-defense," he replies, "but you're starting with an attack. It might be more beneficial to focus on a different technique."

"Like?" I ask.

"Aikido," Bucky replies.

Aikido. Right. He's looking at me like the answer is so obvious that I should've known it, but I'm absolutely clueless.

"It's a style of Japanese martial arts," he explains, registering my confusion.

I wrinkle my forehead, "So you want me to be a ninja? I don't see how that's different."

It's Steve's turn to laugh, and he swiftly gets a glare from his best friend. Raising his hands in defeat, the blonde shakes his head and backs away.

"You take it from here, Buck," Steve concedes, taking a seat along the far wall of the room.

Bucky turns back to me and steps forward to grab my wrist. Turning my hand, he tugs the velcro strap on the boxing glove so it releases before moving to the other one. I'm wearing a long sleeved training jacket over my tank top, so my skin is still covered, and I'm not exactly thrilled about the idea of taking the boxing gloves off. I don't want to burn him again.

"You're not going to hurt me," he murmurs, almost as if he read my mind, and tugs the gloves off one by one before tossing them to the side of the room by Steve's feet.

I curl my fingers into a fist as soon as they're out in the open and drop my hands by my side. I move to get my leather gloves from where they're sitting next to my water bottle, but Bucky grabs my upper arm before I can step away from him.

"Aikido was created with the goal of defending yourself while protecting your attacker from injury," he explains. "You're not going to attack me, you're going to protect me...while defending yourself. I know it only happens when you're stressed or upset, and that's not going to happen, okay?"

Taking a deep breath, I exhale loudly and nod. The doctors have stopped running their tests on me, and they've started encouraging me to learn to control my abilities. They're not even convinced this is the extent of what I'm capable of, but they seem to agree that it's more important for me to learn restraint  _before_  they start to test my boundaries.

"Do you trust me?" Bucky asks.

It feels almost as if his blue eyes are staring into my soul, and I realize the answer to the question far sooner than I should. Yes, I trust him. I don't know why, I don't know how. Hell, until a week ago, I'd never spoken to him. We've never spent more than 2 minutes alone in the same room together, until recently, and I still don't know how he knows my name.

I do know that I trust him.

"Yes," I reply softly. "I trust you."


	18. Chapter 18

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," I groan, wiping the sweat from my brow.

Bucky and I have been training for three days straight, and my entire body aches from the process. For the first day or two, Steve would watch us carefully. I don't know if he thought Bucky would hurt me or vice versa, but he didn't do a great job at holding in his snickers every time I ended up flat on my back.

"Hands up," Bucky instructs, circling the mat slowly.

He looks cool as a cucumber, obviously, while I'm a complete wreck. Sweat is dripping down my neck, and wisps of my hair have come loose from my braid to stick to my forehead. I've already discarded my jacket, opting for a black tank top and black leggings. Bucky's clad in all black as well, but his tank top and sweatpants are distinctly less 'moist'.

Asshole.

"Chloe, hands up," he repeats, and I roll my eyes before obliging.

I lift my hands in front of my chest, allowing one hand to rest on top of the other. It's not your typical movie fighting stance, by any means. Instead of curling my fists and bouncing like a boxer or some sort of ninja, I must look like an evil genius fiddling with his hands as his plot is set in motion. Bucky insists that it's correct, however, so I go ahead with it. After all, I'm not learning how to be a ninja. I'm learning how to defend myself without hurting someone else.

He throws a punch toward my right shoulder, and my hands fly up to protect my face. My right forearm deflects his fist easily, sending it to the air beside me, rather than connecting with my shoulder.

"Move forward," he barks, quickly resetting and sending another punch flying towards me.

This one flies toward my left, a wicked right hook, and it glances my bicep before I'm able to deflect the blow. Luckily, he's been holding back. My arms are already riddled with bruises from missed punches, and I'm thankful that this is only the second one I've missed today. Yesterday, his fist collided with my stomach and sent me to the floor in a heap, and I am not keen on repeating that experience.

 _If this is holding back, I don't ever want to encounter the real thing,_  I can't help but think.

Another punch toward my right shoulder, and I deflect whilst stepping forward this time. It goes against every instinct in my body, but apparently that's because my instincts are 'stupid.' Well, Bucky didn't exactly say that, but I got his meaning.

He gives me a small smile, "Good."

The purpose, he told me, is to retrain my mind into stepping toward any attackers. One of the basic techniques of aikido,  _irimi,_ encourages entering the attack. Instead of fleeing - as my instincts tell me to do every time Bucky throws a punch - he wants me to step toward him so I can move inside the 'danger radius' and redirect the flow of energy from any attack.

Three days. That's how long we've spent on this one concept. Three days of Bucky nearly punching me - and succeeding far more often than I am comfortable admitting - and three days of me throwing up my arms to protect my face and deflect the punch.

Even the pacifist in me is getting bored.

"Will you stop trying to hit me now?" I ask him. "I've mastered the great 'step forward.' I'm basically a pro."

He chuckles and sends another punch my way before I'm able to finish my sentence. My arms move up as I skirt to the side, stepping inward, and a huge grin spreads across my face at my own success. Finally, it's becoming instinct for me to step toward an attack, which means  _finally_  I've done something right.

A second later, I'm landing on my back with Bucky smirking above me.

"That hurt worse than a punch," I mumble, glaring up at him as he offers me a hand. "I'd rather have the punch."

He smirks, "You know how to deflect a punch, but now you need to figure out step two - how to reroute the energy of the attack so you can take down your attacker."

"Sounds fun," I reply sarcastically, batting away his hand and pushing myself to my feet. "When do we start?"

Bucky grabs one of the water bottles sitting on the bench and tosses it to me before twisting the cap off his own and lifting it to his lips. He's become much more adept at using one arm over the last week, and it's been strange to watch. I've worked with veterans before, especially during grad school, but I've never seen someone be so...happy to have a missing limb.

"We'll need Steve to help us," he says. "I can't show you all of the wrist locks, and I don't want you to get used to punches only coming from someone's right hand."

Grabbing my jacket, I follow him out of the training room and into the hallway. It's at least five degrees cooler, and the cold air hitting my sweat instantly causes me to shiver.

"I thought the doctors were working on an arm for you," I reply, nearly colliding with him as I side-step one of the Wakandan staff members. "T'Challa said it would be finished by now."

Bucky pauses, "It is."

His face is devoid of emotion, and his already reserved blue eyes are now staring blankly at the hallway in front of us. Even his posture seems to have gone rigid, like he's erecting a wall between us, and I know I've said something wrong.

"Isn't that a good thing?" I ask him, watching him closely. "I thought you would want--"

"I don't," he interrupts sharply.

My eyes widen, and I inhale deeply. The edge in his voice is enough to send a chill down my spine. He's only ever sounded like that once before, when T'Challa and I brought him out of cryostasis and he tried to kill me. The memory alone is enough to make me nervous, but I remind myself that it wasn't him. Not really.

"Chloe, I...I'm sorry," Bucky says, coming to a halt. He runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it out of his blue eyes before looking down at me. "I should go."

I reach out to him, but he's already disappearing around the corner by the time his name escapes my lips. Now, I'm standing alone in the hallway like an idiot - arm still outstretched - and I have no idea what the hell just happened.

_Great._


	19. Chapter 19

"Chloe?"

T'Challa's voice brings me back to the present as I stare at him, completely dumbfounded. We're not alone in the room, which is part of the reason I haven't found my voice yet - or remembered that I have feet which could be utilized to lead me away from this awkward situation - and the other part is sheer shock.

"Are you okay?" He asks, his dark eyes marked with concern.

I want to snap at him, slap him,  _something_ , but instead I continue to gawk. I feel like I've been hit by a freight train, had my pieces glued back together haphazardly, and promptly tossed off a fifty-story building to smash into fresh smithereens on the ground.

Am I exaggerating? Maybe. Can you blame me?

After all, I'm standing across the room from my father. My long-lost father, aka the man whose existence I knew abso-freaking-lutely nothing about until three weeks ago, the one who was actually married to my mother.

This is not the wonderful Finnish man I grew up loving. This is not my dad.

And I am pissed.

"You are just as beautiful as your mother," my father, S'yan, tells me with his thick accent. "You have her eyes."

I snort, breaking my silence, "That's funny, because everyone used to tell me I have my  _father's_  eyes. I can see now that it isn't true."

T'Challa gives me a stern look, but S'yan motions for him to remain silent.

"Artemis looks like my mother," I tell him, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "She's the spitting image of her. Remember her? The daughter who was kidnapped? While you've been...where  _have_ you been? What the hell have I been doing here sitting on my ass while she is suffering?"

S'yan chuckles, " _Sthandwa sam,_ you--"

"NO." I interrupt him, uncrossing my arms and taking a step forward to point my finger at his chest. "You do not get to call me that. I am not your love. I am not your family. If it wasn't for my DNA, I would not even be your daughter. My father died fifteen years ago, and you do not get to take his place."

I storm out of the room without letting either one of them speak, my purple hair flying wild around my face. Rounding the corner, I nearly collide with Steve's broad chest and grab his arm with my gloved hand to pull him along with me.

"Come on," I command, tugging the American mountain of a man down the hallway.

Surprisingly, he doesn't resist. We navigate toward the training room, and I slam open the doors to reveal a surprised Bucky working with the bag once more. He's covered with sweat, for once, and he's clearly been pushing himself to his limits. Two bags lay discarded and utterly demolished on the floor, while the third is looking a bit worse for wear. Wadded up on the floor is his shirt, and if it weren't for my rage, I would be distracted by the sight of him shirtless.

Well,  _more_ distracted by the sight of him shirtless than I currently am.

"No more waiting, no more prep work, no more dodging punches," I tell both of the men. "Train me. Now."

Bucky takes a step forward, his eyebrows knitted together, "Chloe, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I lie. "I'm ready to learn how to fight."

He looks at me then glances at Steve, who shrugs, before rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. My fists are balled up at my sides, the leather uncomfortably tight as I squeeze my fingernails into my palms. I'm furious at T'Challa, I'm furious that he would spring my father on me without so much as a warning, and I'm furious that my father - no,  _that man_  - would dare talk to me with such familiarity.

"Okay," Bucky gives in, which prompts Steve to raise his eyebrows.

"Are you sure about this, Buck?"

The blonde super soldier doesn't sound convinced, but his friend nods to put an end to it. Steve lifts his hands in defeat, removing his jacket in favor of a t-shirt and jeans. I didn't really think about the fact that he wasn't dressed for training, but he doesn't seem to mind. Then again, being a super soldier probably means you can fight at a moment's notice - no matter what you're wearing - and still kick your opponent's ass.

"I want you to watch how I respond to Steve's punch," Bucky instructs, stepping forward so he's within Steve's range, before nodding to his friend. "Humor me, punk."

Steve throws a punch - clearly not holding back - and I nearly gasp, except he's on his back on the floor before I'm able to make a sound. Bucky is standing above him, the movement happening faster than I could comprehend, and he quickly helps Steve to his feet.

"I didn't strike, I didn't flip," he explains to me. "I simply used his momentum against him."

He motions for me to step closer, then instructs Steve to throw another punch - this time much slower. As he complies, Bucky's arm flies up to protect his face and deflect the punch in the same manner he's been drilling me on, but it continues the forward momentum to reach out over Steve's shoulder - pushing him backward - while he steps into his attack and hooks his foot behind Steve's in order to topple his balance and send him crashing to the floor.

All in all, it seems far too basic to be effective.

I watch them demonstrate the move a few more times with several variations - including a few two-handed additions that Bucky has Steve show me so I can use a simple wrist lock to amplify the move - before he instructs me to try it against him.

Deconstructed and slowed down, I'm able to execute the move after a few rounds, but my anger-fueled adrenaline is dwindling and I'm useless against Bucky's natural speed and grace. I can't topple him at full speed, even when he's holding back. Steve abandons our practice, leaving Bucky and I alone in the training room, and soon I'm nearly as frustrated as I was when I arrived.

"You can do this, Chloe," Bucky encourages me, resetting his stance and preparing to throw another punch my way.

I grimace, raising my hands to the ready position in front of my chest, and he fires a blow toward me. Deflecting it with my forearms, I use my left arm to grab his fingers and bend them backward like he showed me while my right hand stretches out to push against his shoulder, and my foot kicks angrily against his heel while I push forward into his space.

Miraculously, he falls backward. Unfortunately, I fall with him.

 


	20. Chapter 20

A laugh is the first thing that bubbles up from my lips. Bucky smirks, his arm wrapped securely around my waist, and it's that simple gesture that warps the laughter into tears. I bury my face in his shoulder as sobs shake my body, keeping my face turned away from him so he can't see my weakness.

"Chloe," he whispers, lifting his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "What is it? What's wrong?"

I shake my head and realize that I'm still on top of Bucky, my tears falling onto the bare skin of his shoulder, so I begin to scramble to my feet. Using my forearms to push myself upright, Bucky moves with me. His hand catches my wrist before I'm able to stand, and I freeze. I don't want to look at him. I don't want him to see my tears, my frustration.

"You can trust me," Bucky urges.

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, shooting electricity up my arm, and I settle back onto the ground. My knees fold up to my chest, and I wrap my right arm tightly around them before resting my cheek my legs. I don't move my other hand from the floor, unwilling to break contact with Bucky just yet, and I exhale slowly.

"I'm scared," I admit. Immediately Bucky tenses next to me, so I turn to face him - grabbing his hand before he can pull away - and interlace our fingers. "No...not like that. Not of you."

"Oh," he replies, his blue eyes burning a hole into the floor.

I drop his hand like it's on fire, wrapping my other arm around my legs, and I can feel my cheeks burning. Oh, how grateful I am that he can't see it through my complection.

"Everything is happening so fast," I find myself telling him. "My abilities, finding out the truth about my father, Ari...I, um...I miss my sister. I'm scared about what's happening, I'm scared for her, I'm scared..."

My voice trails, and I take a deep breath before continuing, "...I'm scared of myself."

"Hey," Bucky's voice is quiet, and he awkwardly pats my the small of my back as I burst into a fresh wave of tears.

Clearly he is uncomfortable with my display of emotions, then again - so am I - but he sits with me, silently listening as I sob. His hands never moves from my back, and the warm, heavy weight reminds me that I am not alone. The thought pulls me back into myself, and I remind myself to be stronger. To hold it together. I hate the fact that I'm burdening Bucky with my tears, but somehow his hand on my back causes me to melt further into a puddle of tears.

"I've killed people," I babble. "I killed that woman with my bare hands."

Bucky frowns, "Hey, it's okay. You were defending yourself. You did what you had to do."

"Kill her?" I shake my head. "I...I killed two men. When I found out about my abilities, that's how it happened."

"Chloe..." he slides his hand to my forearm and squeezes it reassuringly, wordlessly telling me that I can stop if I want to. That I don't have to share this painful memory.

I blink away fresh tears, "They, um...they mugged me. One of them tried to, uh...he tried to..."

Losing the words, I glance at Bucky to see his blue eyes have grown cold and hard. His face is rigid, the muscles of his jaw clenched tightly, as he stares back at me. A ripple of emotion crosses behind his eyes, unrecognizable, and his face softens. It's almost as if a light has turned on inside of him, and - reflexively - he pulls me into his chest. No longer awkward or uncomfortable, the shell of the Winter Soldier attempting to appear sympathetic to a strange sobbing girl falls away, and Bucky allows his instincts to kick in as he comforts me while I cry.

"We'll find your sister," he murmurs into my hair. "I won't let them hurt you again."

Although his tone is quiet, I recognize a knife-like quality to his words as they cut through the air. He means them, I realize, and he is dead set on following through on his word. It surprises me for a moment, until it hits me. Bucky is the only person who can possibly understand how I'm feeling. How I'm afraid of myself. Afraid of what I might do to people. Afraid that I might hurt those I love.

That's why he went under the ice. He was regaining himself - the laughing, flirty, gentle-hearted man with sparkling blue eyes - until they found him again. He lost control, again, becoming the weapon he hated. The machine. He was afraid of letting that happen - of hurting more people - so he chose to suspend his life rather than take the risk.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, struggling to compose myself once more. "I, um..." A giggle slips from my lips, mixed with a sob, and I smile as I pull away from him. "This isn't the first time I've cried to you, but it is the first time I've soaked you with my tears."

Bucky smiles, "I know."

My eyes grow wide, and he chuckles, "Steve told me. Said....well....he said I should be careful with you."

"Did he now?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow as I attempt to fix my appearance. "What else did Steve say?"

"He said we might be good for each other," Bucky replies, his clear blue eyes staring back at me with alarming honesty. "Said you might need me."


	21. Chapter 21

When I walk into the room, I know something is wrong instantly. Steve is watching me with a sad look in his blue eyes, T'Challa is completely unreadable, and Bucky looks uncomfortable as I feel. My gaze shifts around the room, and it lands on the one person I really don't want to see.

"Nope," I say, backing up and spinning to leave the room.

Bucky jumps up, grabbing my wrist gently, "Chloe, wait..."

" _Sthandwa sam,"_ his voice hits my ear drums, interrupting Bucky, and rage instantly floods my veins. "We have news about your sister."

Spinning around, I stare at him incredulously. Bucky drops my wrist like a hot coal and glares at S'yan. Clearly, this is not the way they planned this to go.

"Are you kidding me?" He asks, his voice low and dangerous. "What happened to breaking it to her easy?"

Steve looks at the ground, clearly uncomfortable with being involved in family drama, while S'yan frowns at Bucky. The five of us appear to be standing in some sort of conference room, except no one is seated at the large round table dominating the center of the room. A large assortment of screens covers one of the walls, currently displaying a muted selection of various television shows, and a leafy green plant occupies the far corner of the room. No doubt it was placed there to 'soften' the room, but all I can think about now is how the tension in here is palpable.

"Break what to me?" I glance at Bucky before turning back to S'yan. "What news about Artemis? Have you found her? Is she okay?"

T'Challa sighs, "Come, let us sit."

"I'd rather not," I snap, folding my arms across my chest.

He gives me a wry smirk, the corners of his lips twitching upward ever-so-slightly, "I didn't think so."

Thank god for decent family. Three weeks ago, I didn't even know T'Challa existed, but now he's becoming something of a brother to me. He's perpetually busy - being a king will do that to you - but he always takes time out of every day to visit with me, even if it's only for twenty minutes. Even if he didn't do that, however, I think he'd still 'get' me. His eyes are far more perceptive than you'd think, and - let's be real - I think he's lonely. After his father died, he had all of this responsibility thrust upon him. Sure, he's got other family besides me - S'yan and a few random cousins - but these are people who grew up with him being the future king (and now current king) of Wakanda. As a result, they treat him like less of a person and more of an...institution.

S'yan frowns, pulling my attention back to him, "We've received intelligence concerning Artemis. Our analysts have confirmed its legitimacy, so now we're trying to discover the source. We still don't know where she is, but we do know that she's alive as of two days ago."

"Two days ago?" I ask. "What does that even mean? How do you know this and still don't know where she is?"

"They sent us a video," he replies, nodding to T'Challa.

I watch as my cousin steps forward, tapping a few quick keystrokes on the keyboard, and suddenly it's like my world is spinning. I haven't seen or heard from my sister in three weeks. Three weeks since I found my apartment in shambles, her friends brutally murdered in my own damn living room. This video might show her face, I might found out that she's been tortured, beaten, and left close to death. Or, even worse, she might not even be in the video.

"H-h-hello," Ari's voice fills the room, her face splashed all over the screens. "My n-name is Ari Tuominen, Artemis Tuominen. I'm twenty years old, and I-I'm a student at G-George Washington University."

Relief floods my system as I take in her appearance. She's sitting at a nondescript metal table in what appears to be an empty room, a stark concrete wall behind her. Aside from a small cut above her right eyebrow, I don't notice any major physical injuries. Granted, most of her body is covered in a pair of drab grey scrubs, so they could be hidden. Still, as my eyes pour over her appearance, I notice that she doesn't appear to be much thinner - thankfully - and, aside from the tremor in her voice, she seems to be holding it together fairly well.

She's holding up a newspaper now, pointing to the date at the top, but I'm barely paying attention to the words. All I can think about is how my baby sister is alive. After three weeks of uncertainty, she's alive. She's breathing. Which means we can still get her back.

"C-Chloe," the sound of my name on Ari's lips brings my attention back to the video, and I watch as she blinks back tears. "Y-you have f-four days to turn yourself in, or I will be...oh god, no. Please..."

She breaks down into tears, and I hear a rough voice shouting at her off-camera in a language I don't understand. Her face is ashen as she nods, struggling to pull herself together, before she continues speaking.

"...or I will be k-k-killed," she manages to squeak out. "Y-you must be at Monastiraki Square in Athens, Greece by 1PM on Th-Thursday for the exchange. C-come alone."

 


	22. Chapter 22

"No."

Bucky's deep voice is low and firm, speaking before I'm even able to process my thoughts. I whirl around to face him, eyes wide, as my heart pounds against my chest. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe they've had this video and kept it from me. I can't believe...

"...two days?" I ask him quietly. "You kept this from me for  _two days_?!"

S'yan speaks up, reminding me of how much I hate that he's here, "No,  _sthandwa sam._ I kept it from you for two days. T'Challa and I discussed it..."

"Stop calling me that," I interrupt, clenching my fists as I shift my glare from Bucky to my biological father.

  
He ignores me, "T'Challa and I discussed it, and we believed it prudent to verify the video's information first, as well as utilize our own sources to track it and find Artemis."

"And?" I ask incredulously.

T'Challa takes a step toward me, his eyes weary, "We were unable to locate her."

"Great!" I say, throwing my hands up in the air. "I have two days to get to Athens or they're going to kill my sister, and you decided - hey, I know, let's  _not tell Chloe_  because obviously she can't handle it."

S'yan sighs, " _Stha--"_

"No," I snap, eyes blazing. "No more. You lied to me for my  _entire_ life, and this? This is unforgivable. If anything happens to Artemis, I will kill you."

Harsh words, I know, but I'm absolutely seething with rage. I feel betrayed by everyone in this room - T'Challa, Steve,  _Bucky_. How long did he know? If it was S'yan and T'Challa who decided to keep this from me, does that mean Bucky and Steve were in the dark too? No, that can't be right. When I walked in, Bucky snapped at them for not breaking it to me easy.

Damn it. He knew. He knew and he didn't tell me anything. I shouldn't be surprised - after all, I've only known him for a few weeks - but I can't help but be disappointed. I thought he was different.

"I'm going to Athens," I tell the four men, all of them watching me carefully. "I don't care what you say, I don't care what you  _think_ , I'm going."

It's Steve's turn to speak up, and the blonde super soldier gives me a sheepish look. I brace myself for a Captain America-style lecture. If he ever decides to quit being a superhero, I'm pretty sure Steve Rogers would make an excellent high school principal. I can already feel the guilt sinking into my chest, and he hasn't even said anything yet.

"Chloe," he says, running a hand across the back of his neck as he hesitates. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"You can't sto--wait," I stare up at him. "You think I should go?"

Bucky shakes his head from the shadowy corner of the room he occupies, "Absolutely not. Steve, you can't be serious."

"It's clear we don't have another option," Steve argues.

I definitely agree with him. We don't have another option. They've wasted two days trying to pursue other options - without me, even though this is clearly my choice - and failed. Now, we do it my way. I can't help but smile at Steve, thrilled that he actually agrees with me, and I resist the urge fist pump the air.

Bucky, however, groans.

"This is a trap," he insists, running his hand through his long hair. "Clearly, it's a trap. They want her, they took her sister to get her. What the hell do you think they're going to do to her once they have her? Have a picnic? I won't let that happen."

"Let it happen?" I scoff. "You're not responsible for me. None of you are. I've made my decision, so you can either  _help me_  get my sister back or you can leave. End of discussion."

Bucky glares at me, "Fine."

He pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against, throws open the door, and slams it behind him. Steve sighs - clearly he was expecting that reaction. They must've been arguing about it before they even told me about the video, given the tension in the room, and I'm guessing that the majority didn't agree with Bucky.

I don't want to come between the two men, especially not when they've finally started recovering the friendship they lost over half a century ago, but I push my guilt aside. Ari is my focus, not Bucky Barnes' feelings. I have to get my sister back, and I don't really give a rat's ass what happens to me in the process. If it's a trap, fine. It's obvious that whoever is behind this doesn't want to meet for gyros and chat, and I can deal with them if they try to take me.

That's the reason I've been training so hard anyway, right? I wanted to be able to protect myself, and now I can. Granted, I'm no Black Widow - let's be real here, I'll never be that talented in combat - but I don't want to be. I can, however, defend myself. My new powers or whatever they are, combined with what Bucky has taught me, I'm confident that I can do this.

I have to be able to do this. I don't have any other choice.

Turning to Steve, I take a deep breath, "When do we leave?"

 


	23. Chapter 23

While Chloe works out the details with Steve and the others, Bucky heads straight for the training room. He's furious - absolutely livid - that Steve would even consider allowing Chloe to do this. Yes, they have her sister, but no one even knows who  _they_ are.

He tried convincing Steve that it was Hydra. All signs point to them. Sure, they were 'destroyed' and exposed with the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., but he knows that's a load of bullshit. Hydra adapts. Evolves. Cut off one head, two more will take its place. Who knows which head this is, which asshole decided that he or she wants to destroy the world, but it doesn't matter.

Bucky isn't going to let it happen. Not this time. Not to Chloe.

He stops in front of the door to the training room, hand outstretched, and lets his gaze land on his finger tips. His hand his shaking with rage, adrenaline and anger coursing through his veins seeking an outlet, and he's got a feeling that a few rounds with a punching bag won't do the trick. Not today.

Hesitating, he sucks in a deep breath as memories flash through his mind. Disjointed and fragmented glimpses into his past as the Winter Soldier, the other self he's tried so desperately to forget, swim through his head. He thought he could fight it. That he could move on from being the machine, the weapon, the... _thing_  they created.

He was wrong.

Even after Tony did him a favor and tore off his arm, forcing him to relive that pain a second time, he knew he couldn't escape it. Yes, the arm was gone. It helped him cope. Helped him separate himself from the man they made him to be. However, he can't fight the truth.

His arm was never the weapon. He is.

The deadliest assassin in Hydra history. James Buchanan Barnes. Hell of a moniker to lug around for half a century.

Exhaling slowly, Bucky curls his fingers into a fist as he squeezes his eyes shut. More memories jolt through him. Falling from the train. The snow. Blood everywhere. A Soviet soldier dragging him back to Hydra.

Year after year of misery and pain and torture.

Death. Death. Death.

Before he's even aware of it, he's punched through the wall next to him. It crumbled beneath the weight of his fist, the hole larger than one you would create with a sledgehammer, and he forces himself to exhale.

There are gaps in his memory still. Places where his mind has yet to fill in the holes or simply refuses to remember out of sheer horror, but he never forgot the day he received his arm. He was barely able to function, but fully aware of what the doctors did to him that day. Forced to watch as Zola and his colleagues removed the remnants of his arm and replaced it with that monstrosity. The fusion of metal and flesh and bone sending his body through wave after wave of excruciating pain, ripping him apart internally and forcing him back together until he was screaming in his mind for it to stop.

He begged for death to take him on that table. Anything would've been a sweet release compared to what they did to him, to the agony he endured, but he was not that lucky. Arnim Zola welcomed him to Hydra like a prodigal son returning home, completely aware that his patient was conscious and would suffer through the entire process.

 _Sergeant Barnes,_  Zola told him, grinning proudly at the prospect of his accomplishment.  _The procedure is already started. You are to be the new fist of Hydra._

Pushing away the memory, he forces it back to the recesses of his mind and heads away from the training room, completely forgetting the havoc he wreaked on the wall. No, his mind is on one thing right now as he strides quickly through the Wakandan facility. Staff members hurry to step out of his way, no one eager to collide with the man who has the makings of destruction etched all over his face.

Bucky rounds the corner to the medical bay, stopping in sight of the glass chamber that held him less than a few weeks prior. He'd hoped to avoid this. To find rest - or at least some semblance of it - while the world continued to spin on without him. He was tired of leaving nothing but carnage in his wake, tired of reliving the horrors of his past, tired of feeling like he couldn't trust himself not to fall back into the monster Hydra made him to be. When he went under the last time, he told himself that - when he woke up - everything would be better. Maybe then he'd find peace.

He passes through the room swiftly, avoiding the few lab technicians working at their stations, and enters the next open area. A woman in white spots him from across the room, her smile a bright contrast against her radiant dark skin, and he fights back the urge to run in the opposite direction.

This is a safe place, he reminds himself. This isn't like before.

"Mr. Barnes," the woman welcomes him warmly, stepping toward him. "What brings you here?"

Bucky's jaw tightens as he hesitates, then he opens his mouth to speak. Volumes of meaning rush out of him as it sinks in, and the room nearly topples around him when he utters two short, gruff words.

"Do it."

 


	24. Chapter 24

After getting a load of instructions from Steve, I head back to my room. We're leaving in two hours - which is two hours later than I want to leave - but I can't force them to rush on their plans any more than I can make the jet to refuel faster. Instead, he told me to relax. I resisted the urge to laugh at him, especially since I really wanted to burst into tears, and left the room without responding.

How am I supposed to relax knowing that my sister's life is hanging in the balance? If something happens and we can't make it to Athens in time - what then?

Shivering, I peel off my clothes and hop into the steaming shower. While the hot water covers my skin, eating at the tension in my shoulders bit by bit, I allow my mind to wander. Ari, for what it's worth, is alive and well. I trust Steve to get me to Athens on time to meet...whoever is doing this, which means she's going to  _stay_  alive and well. I won't let anything happen to her.

And if they take me?

I shiver despite the warmth of my shower. Bucky could be right. This could be Hydra. I've learned enough about them in school growing up to know they're horrible, and that's without S.H.I.E.L.D. leaks. If they take me, which - let's face it - they're going to try to do, then I'm not going to be able to fight them. Even with my ability, even with my limited training. I'm going to fail miserably, and it'll be a fight like a toddler versus an MMA wrestler. Except the MMA wrestler would hold back. Hydra won't.

The water's already grown cold by the time I turn off the shower, and I step out to wrap myself in a clean towel. All I can think about is what Hydra's going to do to me if they get me. When they get me. I know Steve and T'Challa are planning something, some sort of backup plan, but they can't be with me in Athens on the ground. If they are, these people will know. They'll kill Artemis. So what's to stop them from taking me too?

I think about what they did to Bucky, and panic surges through me. I know they experimented on him, both before and after his 'death', and they gave him a metal arm. They made him a weapon, a tool to be used, and stole his humanity from him. The Winter Soldier, the thing they made him, he can't escape from that. I can see it on his face. The ever-present frown when he thinks no one is watching, the pain hidden in every smile, the distance and horror in his eyes when I know he's reliving yet another terrible memory.

I've wanted to take it all away since I met him. Back in DC, when he looked at me...he hesitated. Even then, I could see the pain and anger in his eyes, and I was completely captivated. The man who tried to kill so many, and he stopped when he saw me.

Cursing inwardly, I pull out my clothes and get dressed. I want to be  _mad_  at Bucky Barnes, I don't want to feel bad for him. I know he doesn't want my pity - that much is obvious - but I...I care for him. I hate that everything happened like this. I hate the things that have been done to him, and I hate that we're fighting now.

He knows that I have to do this, I realize, pulling a t-shirt over my head. Surely, he knows. And maybe that's why he's fighting against it so hard, because he - more than anyone - knows what people like Hydra will do to me if given the chance.

Once I'm fully dressed, I perch on the edge of the bed and look at the room around me. For the last few weeks, this has been my home. These people have become my family, and - while I miss my life in DC too - I don't feel ready to give this up yet. I know I'm not ready to give Bucky up yet. In all of his gruffness, his sarcasm, and his moodiness, Bucky's become one of my best friends, my confidante, and...I don't know.

Steve was right.

I need him.

A knock on my door pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up as it cracks open.

"Speak of the devil," I mumble as Bucky's face appears. "I don't want to argue with you, Bucky. I'm going. I don't..."

He leaves the door open just a crack, watching me carefully, and sighs, "I know. Can I come in?"

"Are you going to tell me that I'm being an idiot?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

He gives me a wry smirk, "I think you already know that you're being an idiot."

"Fine," I wave him in, before staring at my feet. "Come, lecture me."

Bucky hesitates, still leaning against the doorframe, and shakes his head.

"I'm not here to lecture you," he tells me grimly, pushing the door open the rest of the way and stepping into my room. "I'm here because I'm coming with you."

Looking up at him, I stifle a gasp. He's dressed in his familiar leather gear, similar to what he was wearing when we first met back when he was the Winter Soldier, and a thread of fear stabs through me. I know he won't hurt me, but seeing him like this for the first time in so long...it's nerve-wracking. My eyes trail over his face, his blue eyes guarded as they stare back at me, before I take in his arm.

His metal arm.

 


	25. Chapter 25

I can't believe it. I can't even begin to find the words to express my shock as Bucky enters the room, the light reflecting off the shiny new metal of his arm. It looks similar to the one I first saw in DC, molded to reflect the shape and size of his right bicep perfectly, only I know it contains significantly more power. The red star still decorates the shoulder, the design faded, and it's obvious from the design of the bionic arm that a few upgrades have been put into place.

"How long are you going to stare at me like that?"

Bucky's voice is softer than I'd expected, a hint of uncertainty laced between every word. His expression is nearly unreadable, blue eyes trained on me, as he takes a step into the room.

I exhale slowly, "When did this happen?"

"About an hour ago," he replies.

Damn. There's no way they could've done the procedure that quickly unless he had planned it ahead of time, and - based on what's happened so far today - I'm betting that's exactly what happened. Bucky knew I'd react this way, and he wasn't about to let me go to Greece alone. With one arm, he's strong, sure, but against Hydra? He's pulling out all the stops.

For me.

"I thought..." My voice catches in my throat. "I thought you didn't want it. You told me..."

He nods, "I know."

Steve told me that Bucky had refused the arm the doctors created for him. T'Challa had them design it and start production when he first went under, that way something would be ready for him when he woke up. Unfortunately, we pulled him out of cryo a bit sooner than they anticipated, so they'd ramped up production so Bucky could have it as soon as possible.

I was baffled to learn that he'd rejected it, but Steve thought it had something to do with the memories of the experiments Hydra performed on him. I can't even imagine what he must have suffered. First, he fell from the train and was nearly dead when they found him, then they began experimenting on him until they could turn him into the ultimate living weapon. Getting a new arm would force him to relive all of that, and I couldn't blame him for wanting to avoid the experience.

Even without it, he was more than capable of taking care of himself. It clearly took some adjusting at first, learning how to function with one arm, but he was still stronger than most men and way more skilled in combat. I'd been getting the impression that he wanted to live without it, permanently, but now...now I can't help but feel guilty for the fact that I've put him through this.

Standing, I take a step toward him and stretch out my hand toward his arm. He watches me carefully, the muscles in his jaw clenched, as he nods to give me permission to touch it. The metal is cool under my fingertips, marked with ridges that allow the panels to flex and move in order to increase range of motion. Running my hand slowly over the smooth surface, I find myself in awe of the technology that allows this arm to function so realistically. If I didn't know better, I'd think it he's wearing some kind of metal sleeve, like armor tailored to his skin.

He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and I glance up at him.

"Can you feel it?" I ask.

Bucky nods, letting out a short laugh, "Barely. I can't tell if it's real, or if I'm imagining it...like it's some sort of phantom pain. The doctors here told me that it's wired up to my brain, which is how I control it, and there are some sensory receptors transmitting signals through the arm to my body. It will learn over time too, though I'm not sure I understand how that works. It's not just pressure - I can tell the difference between textures too."

My fingers slide down his forearm toward his wrist, and I smile as his face visibly relaxes into the sensation. He looks like he's struggling to come to terms with the arm, torn between enjoying the feeling of my hand on the metal and hating the fact that he's wearing it once more.

"Has it always been like this?" I ask him. "I mean, the other arm...did it do this too?"

"No," he replies, opening his eyes to look down at me. "I couldn't feel anything."

So this is all new. I can't even imagine what he's feeling right now, regaining the ability to not only have his arm - but to feel things again. It must be overwhelming.

His hand moves suddenly, his fingers catching mine, and he smiles at me. For a moment, I see a glimpse of the man he once was. The one Steve tells stories about who could make any woman swoon. An ornery grin twists his lips up at the corners, and I can feel my heart pounding heavily in my chest as he gently brushes his metal thumb across the back of my hand. I don't know how, but it feels like silk sliding across my skin - ever so careful not to hurt me - and I bite my lip as goosebumps trail up my arm.

"Chloe," Steve's voice calls out in the hallway.

Bucky drops my hand suddenly, taking a few steps away, and the easy-going look on his face disappears as quickly as it arrived. He turns toward the doorway just as Steve arrives, the blonde super soldier lifting an eyebrow at his best friend's appearance. While he doesn't seem as surprised as I was, it's obvious that he wasn't expecting this.

"The jet's ready," he tells both of us, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

We both nod, and Steve gives us a warm smile.

"Let's go get your sister back," he says.


	26. Chapter 26

The flight to Greece isn't taking nearly as long as the flight from DC, but it still feels like it's been dragging on for ages. Steve's flying the plane, with T'Challa in the co-pilot's seat, and Bucky is in the back of the plane facing me. He hasn't said anything since we took off, and the closer we get to Athens, the more nervous I'm starting to feel.

Hydra is probably waiting for me, and there's a chance that this entire thing could be a trap. God, I would never forgive myself if they were using Artemis as bait to get not only me, but Bucky as well. I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt of him returning to Hydra, being forced back into the life he fought so hard to escape.

My hands are trembling ever-so-slightly, so I clench them into fists and stare down at my feet. I just need to remember my training, and stick to the plan. There are five main entrances to the square, four of which are narrow roads that split off the square while the fifth is a larger entrance that branches into multiple roads. Steve will be stationed at that entrance, while Bucky and T'Challa will each cover two of the other exits to the square.

It's going to be okay. I just need to keep telling myself that, and maybe I'll start believing it before we land in Athens.

"Chloe?" Bucky's voice draws my attention upward. "Just...breathe."

I nod, chewing on my lip, before looking back at my feet, "Right."

"Artemis is going to be fine, I promise," he reassures me. "I know it probably doesn't matter much to you right now, but Steve...he's actually really good at these rescue-type missions. Saved my ass more than I can count."

Glancing up at him, I see the concern in his blue eyes. He's trying to pull me out of my anxious thoughts, and I'm grateful for it. If I keep sitting here in silence, I'm fairly certain that the anticipation will drive me crazy.

"There must be a story there," I reply with a half-hearted grin.

He chuckles, one of his few laughs, and nods, "Which one?"

"Which one's your favorite?" I ask him.

Bucky pauses, taking a moment to think it over, and smiles, "That was back in '43. You know I was in the Army, right?"

I nod, and he continues, "107th Infantry Regiment. We were stationed near Azzano, Italy. We were battling these German soldiers before, um..." he hesitates for a moment. "Before Hydra arrived. Of course, back then, Hydra was part of the special weapons division of the Nazi Schutzstaffel. They wiped out the battle field - German and Allied troops were completely decimated - and they took the rest of us hostage."

"I saw the museum exhibit," I say softly, not wanting him to continue if the memory is too uncomfortable. 

He forces a smile, "Bet you didn't know that was the first time I'd seen Steve since he received the serum. Hell, I didn't know anything about Captain America at the time, let alone that he might be my best friend. Then this guy shows up, saves my life, and it turns out to be the punk from Brooklyn who always got into fights he couldn't win."

"Now he can, I guess," I reply, averting my gaze once more.

Bucky nods, a distant look in his blue eyes, and stands. Crossing the jet quickly, he takes the seat next to me and places his hand lightly on my arm. We sit like that in silence for a while, neither one of us sure what to say. We're both lost in our thoughts - Bucky in the past and me in the future - so we find the smallest semblance of comfort together in the back of the jet.

I know he's worried about what's waiting for us on the ground in Athens. Sure, they might get me, but I know he's worried for himself too. He'd be stupid not to be. After spending so long under Hydra's control, the prospect of returning to that - of losing the identity he spent so long trying to recover - it must be horrifying. First receiving his new arm, and now this?

Just as I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, Bucky turns to look at me. His long brown hair falls in front of his eyes, their clear blue color hidden momentarily, before he pushes it out of his face. I can't remember what I was going to say, so I just stare at him as he slides his fingers down my forearm to hold my hand.

"When Steve makes a promise, he sticks to it. We both do," Bucky reassures me, finally breaking the silence as his fingers interlace with mine. "'Til the end of the line." 

 


	27. Chapter 27

For my first trip to Athens, I've got to say...I'm not liking it very much. I wish I could let myself get lost in the history of the city - the ruins of such a beautiful ancient civilization evident all around me - but all I can think about is the clock ticking down to 1PM on Thursday.

It's just past noon now, and we're in the car headed toward Monastiraki Square. T'Challa has been monitoring the vicinity for the past few hours, while Steve and Bucky walk me through the plan again.

T'Challa's going to be our eyes in the sky, as Steve put it, watching the two exits he's been assigned from the roof of a building surrounding the square. Steve assigned himself the largest exit - where the road runs alongside a wide opening into the square and splits into multiple exits - while Bucky will be on foot near the Monastiraki Metro Station. I'm going to wait for Artemis in the middle of the Square until 1PM, at which point - I'm assuming - they'll try to take me.

It's pretty straightforward, really, so I tune out Steve as he repeats it to me for the seventh time. Get Artemis, avoid capture and/or death, get out. What's left to understand?

What I'm worried about is the holes in the plan. What if they don't bring Artemis? What if it's an ambush? What if...

"Chloe," Bucky's voice draws me out of my thoughts. "It's time."

I stare at him, forgetting to breathe for a moment, until he squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.

His face softens, "It's going to be fine. Trust me."

"Okay," I nod and take a deep breath. "Okay."

Steve tells me good luck as I open the door to exit the car, and Bucky's eyes are locked onto my face until I shut the door between us. Exhaling slowly, I start walking down the street. They dropped me off at the corner of Ερμού across the street from an Indian restaurant, and I glance over my shoulder to see Steve park the car behind me. Bucky's eyes meet mine briefly before he turns away, disappearing quickly down the street while Steve trails behind me. I've got a quarter of a mile to walk, five minutes, before I arrive in Monastiraki Square, and they want to make sure I'm not ambushed on the way to the meeting place.

Soon enough, I turn into the square and my breathing catches in my chest. It's absolutely beautiful here. The sun is shining brightly, not a cloud in the sky, and I can see the Acropolis overlooking the city in the near distance. There are people everywhere, talking and laughing, and it's almost easy to forget why I'm here in the first place.

I walk by a gelato shop followed immediately by Yiaourtaki, a brightly colored shop selling fresh and frozen yogurt along with heaps of fruit, and I force myself to smile. Artemis would love it here. Gelato and frozen yogurt practically side-by-side. There's a break in traffic ahead of me, so I jog across the street and cut between the waiting taxi cabs to step into the Square.

I don't see her anywhere. Not yet. Pulling out my phone, I glance at the screen - 12.50PM. Ten minutes to go. There's a large structure jutting out of the square to my right, some kind of modern art display, and I pass it on my way to a low, flat step covered in glass panels and graffiti that marks a skylight into the Metro below. A woman is sitting on it a few feet away from me, chatting happily on her cell phone, and all around me people are bustling about the day. Across the square, a man is trying on sunglasses from a street vendor while his friend laughs at him.

They certainly picked the perfect time for this exchange. It's busy enough in the Square that it's difficult for me to keep tabs on everything that's going on around me, which means it's going to be that much harder for Bucky, Steve, and T'Challa to keep an eye on me. They didn't give me an earpiece given the fact that I've never worn one before, and they were afraid it would tip Artemis' captors off that I'm not alone.

So here I am, in the middle of Athens, feeling  _very_  alone.

A fresh wave of people step out of the Metro station, some of them rushing to lunches and meetings while others dawdle - probably tourists - throughout the Square. My hands are tightly clenched by my sides, and I force myself to exhale slowly as I remind myself that - even though I can't see them - Bucky, Steve, and T'Challa are watching me. Bucky is watching me. He won't let anything happen to me.

"Hello, Chloe," a man's voice draws my attention to the right, and I snap my head in that direction to see a tall, blonde man standing next to me.

He's impeccably dressed in a designer suit, the quality evident by the fact that it's perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, and he smiles at me. My heart leaps in my throat at the sight of his dark brown eyes, eyes that watch my every move with expert precision. I don't recognize this man, and he certainly doesn't look like Hydra, but I know that it's him. Artemis, however, is nowhere to be found.

"Where's my sister?" I croak, willing myself to stay calm.

The man laughs, "You know, I've been looking forward to meeting you, Chloe. We've been watching you for a long time."

"Where is Artemis?" I repeat, praying that Bucky and the rest of the team is watching this man closely.

A shiver runs down my spine as he smiles again, "She'll be here soon."

"Who are you?" I ask him. "What do you want with me?"

He looks down at his watch, lifting the sleeve of his jacket ever so slightly to peer down at the glimmering face of the pristine Omega watch, before looking back up at me. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he smiles again.

"My name is Magnus," he tells me. "And I'm not here for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: Magnus is actually an original character from my other Marvel fanfic that's posted on Wattpad. Not necessary to know who he is, but there will be a little more crossover from this point on that's subtle. Nothing major to the story! It's all part of the JMCU (J's Marvel Cinematic Universe), so just a bit of fun.


	28. Chapter 28

Bucky.

Oh god, I hope the others are watching this. I'm kicking myself internally for not convincing them to let me wear an earpiece or some sort of wire, because I'm pretty sure they don't know what this guy just said.

"Where's my sister?" I ask him quietly, barely holding the strings of panic crawling up my throat at bay.

He smiles, "Why don't you come with me, and we'll go see her."

Taking a step toward me, he loops his hand around my bicep and tugs me toward him. My first instinct is to pull away, but he's stronger than me. His grip tightens, no doubt leaving a bruise, and I grimace before looking frantically around the square. The lunch crowd is thick, a steady swarm of people wander through the square, and I don't see any familiar faces. Steve is somewhere behind me, and when I glance over my shoulder, I can't spot him. To my left is the Tzistarakis Mosque, which has two streets on either side of it - one of which is supposed to be guarded by T'Challa, while the other is watched by Bucky. I can't see either of them as we head straight for the one on the right - Bucky's street - which means he's probably still at the other street.

Or they took him.

A scream erupts to my right, and my head whips around toward the sound. There - right in front of the entrance to the flea market - I see a flash of metal. Half of the crowd is rushing away, but half is heading straight toward the disturbance. The woman from earlier, the one who was smiling and talking on her cell phone, is now straight-faced as she heads into the fray, and my breath hitches in my chest as I see her pull out a gun.

Kicking my foot out in front of Magnus', I shove my shoulder into his and force him to stumble into a display of hats next to a vendor's stall. His grip on my arm loosens, and I wrench it away from him and sprint toward where Bucky might be. The woman spots me and lifts her gun, so I swerve to my left and duck behind another vendor selling mounds of fresh fruit. A shot fires, tearing through the stall, and more screams erupt.

The square plunges into chaos, pedestrians rushing to escape the madness, as the woman fires off another shot at me. I'm less than ten feet from the entrance to the flea market, and - through the crush of bodies - I can see the familiar blue hat covering Bucky's head as he's struggling against several combatants.

A man to my right lunges toward me, his arms wrapping around my torso and sending me straight to the cobblestones. It's the man from the sunglasses vendor, his partner trailing behind him with a knife, and he lifts his fist to punch me in the face. I cry out as his strike lands on my cheekbone, my vision dotted with flecks of black, before my senses return to me.

My hands fly up to his neck, skin pressing against skin, and I hold on tightly as he slams another blow into my face. The second one is weakened, luckily, and I'm able to maintain contact with him until his eyes widen with shock and he collapses on top of me.

Shoving him off, I roll away and push myself upright just as his partner lunges at me with his knife. I force myself to step toward the attack instead of away, remembering Bucky's training, and I throw my hands up to stay ready. My left foot steps forward as I capture his forearm, twisting it counterclockwise until he bends at the waist, and I sweep my right leg over his head to lock onto his elbow joint. Using my body weight to force him down, he drops the knife and falls beneath me while the contact of my hands on his seeps the life out of him.

It all happens so quickly, I'm barely back on my feet before I notice the woman with the handgun pushing through the crowd toward Bucky. Her arm is raised, aiming her next shot toward his head, and he looks up to see her before slamming his shoulder into one of his many attackers and throwing the man at the woman. The two of them topple to the ground as Bucky wretches his metal arm free from a device clamping it to the street, allowing him to maneuver himself into a better position to face the oncoming attacks. Multiple men approach him at once, each of them acting in unison to overwhelm him, until a third man brandishes some sort of taser and jabs it into his ribs.

Bucky staggers momentarily, before recovering his stance and rendering two of the three men unconscious. Four more enter the fray, two of them brandishing handguns, and I reach out to lock my arms around the neck of the closest one. He resists, jabbing his elbow into my ribcage, but I spread my palms out over his neck until he falls to the ground. The second he falls, one of the other men fires off a round of bullets, and I watch as one of them sinks into Bucky's thigh.

He cries out in pain, using his metal arm as a shield to block another spray of bullets, before tossing one of the men to the side like a ragdoll. Two more advance as the woman from earlier recovers, heading toward me with her gun outstretched.

We're trapped.

From the sounds of it, I can hear gunfire and screams coming from across the square, meaning T'Challa and Steve are probably occupied too. Bucky's eyes flicker over to mine, and I can see the pain and fear etched deep within them as I lift my hands in surrender. Her gun is trained at the center of my forehead, and he's too far away to disarm her and the two attackers facing him at the same time.

"Move and she dies," the woman hisses.


	29. Chapter 29

Bucky hesitates for a moment, watching the woman carefully, before his tense muscles relax an inch, and he stands upright. Lifting his hands in surrender to mirror my own, he pivots slightly so he can face both me and the woman approaching me.

"Bucky, don't," I warn him.

He shakes his head, "I promised, Chloe. I promised it would be okay."

"They don't want me," I blurt out, flinching as the woman takes another step forward to press the barrel of the gun against my forehead. The cold metal sends shivers down my spine, and I fight the onslaught of tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I'm terrified - absolutely terrified - and, even though I don't want to die, I definitely don't want these people to take Bucky. I can't let that happen.

Bucky grimaces, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he watches the fear shift into terror on my face, "Put the gun down. Let her go."

"You're hardly in a bargaining position, Mr. Barnes," the woman says in heavily-accented English. 

I start to shake my head, momentarily forgetting the gun pushed against it, before whispering, "Please, James. Please don't do this."

"I'll go with you," Bucky bargains, ignoring my pleading. "Let her go, and I'll go willingly."

The woman smirks, and laughter hits my eardrums as the man from earlier approaches. He's clapping slowly, still pristine in his suit even though chaos has erupted around us, and he smiles broadly at me. His dark brown eyes glitter, and - for a moment - I feel that this man is far more dangerous than the gun pointing my way. I can't let him take Bucky.

"Very well done, Chloe," Magnus says, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "You too, Barnes. An impressive show. I wasn't certain you'd regain so much...humanity, given your history, but you've certainly proven me wrong. The greatest weapon in Hydra history, bargaining over the life of an insignificant girl. How utterly  _humiliating_."

Magnus nods at the woman, who lowers her gun instantly. She lifts her finger to her ear, no doubt using a hidden earpiece to call for backup, and I glance at Bucky. His blue eyes are cold, emotion drained from them aside from a very clear warning. Don't do anything stupid. I can practically hear him hissing the words at me, but I ignore it.

Now is definitely the time for stupid.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a squad of men storming through Monastiraki Square. They're heavily armed, dressed in black, as they thunder through the chaos toward us. Steve and T'Challa must be out there, somewhere, otherwise there's no way they would let this happen. They should be able to hear Bucky - to hear everything - but they haven't done anything.

Why haven't they done anything?

Acting purely on impulse, I barrel forward toward the woman with the gun. My charge catches her off-guard, and she lifts her gun to fire just before my body connects with her. A shot rings out, pain rippling through me, but my momentum continues to carry me forward as I knock her to the ground. One hand pushes her wrist away as she fires another shot into the air, while my other collides with the bare skin of her neck.

Bucky reacts immediately, delivering a powerful roundhouse kick to Magnus before rushing to my side. I can tell he wants to engage with the man who is now pushing himself slowly to his feet, regaining his composure, but Bucky's icy blue gaze is fixed firmly on me as he pulls me away from the now-motionless woman and wraps an arm securely around my waist.

"Come on, Chloe," he urges. "We gotta go."

Nodding, I let him pull me away from the squad of fresh fighters moving into the area as we push into the Athens Flea Market. Vendors and pedestrians are everywhere, many still trying to escape the area while a few - driven by curiosity - are trying to get a better look of the infamous man with the metal arm. Bucky shoves one man to the side, squeezing me past a stall selling brightly colored sandals, and we weave our way through the crowd while Magnus and his men are thundering behind us.

Bucky guides me to the left, turning down a small alley at the first possible opportunity, and he spots a man parking his scooter alongside a graffiti-covered wall. Snatching the keys from the man, he hoists the scooter around so it faces the opposite direction and plants me on it. The tiny bike groans under his weight while the man he took it from screams a slew of Greek at us, and we zip down the alley toward an opening in the buildings.

Leaning to the right, we speed up around the corner and fly down a street lined with cafes on one side and fenced-in ruins on the other. A perfect mesh of old and new, it flies by in a blur as I focus on keeping a tight grip around Bucky's waist.

Bullets buzz past us, screams erupting in the previously peaceful street, and Bucky swerves to the right down an alley to avoid them. Another group of Magnus' men is charging up the next street, so he carefully navigates left then right again before turning onto Ερμού heading away from the Square. Sirens wail as he navigates through the streets of Athens, careful to avoid a straight path, and soon we're lost in the ancient city. 

 


	30. Chapter 30

After twenty minutes of zigzagging around the streets of Athens, Bucky turns onto a small residential side street lined with cars and comes to a stop. There's an old man on the corner smoking a cigarette, but - besides him - the neighborhood is completely empty. Across the street, a garage area is gated off with a few chairs are clustered under the veranda next to it, and each level of the surrounding buildings have some sort of balcony jutting out from each level of the residences. I'm not sure if they're houses or apartments, but I see a laundry line hanging from the railing of one of the balconies. That, coupled with the purr of an air conditioner, tells me that they aren't as empty as they seem.

Bucky hops off the scooter first, forcing me to relinquish my steadying grip around his waist, and I hurry to follow him. He heads straight to the corner of the street, checking around the building carefully, before turning and heading back toward the main road.

"Where are we going?" I ask, wincing as I jog to keep up with him.

He glances back at me, slowing his pace ever-so-slightly, before pointing ahead, "There's a bus station up there. We need to get out of the city."

Frowning, I grit my teeth and press my hand against the side of my abdomen. A warm, sticky substance coats my fingers, my muscles quaking against the pressure, and I pull my hand back to see the crimson stain of blood covering my palm. The woman managed to squeeze off a shot back at the Square, but it only grazed my waist. I know enough about medicine to know that I'm not in any danger, so I pull my adjust my jacket carefully to cover the wet spot growing on my navy t-shirt, and follow after Bucky.

Several lanes of traffic separate us from the other side, with cars zooming down the street with little regard for safety. Part of me is worried Bucky might have us cross here - jumping the barriers and dodging cars like Frogger - but he turns to the left, and I spot a large walkway bridging the highway. Stairs spiral up one side, where only a few pedestrians linger, and he eagerly bounds up the steps two at a time.

My lungs are burning from effort, and my side feels like a thousand knives are pressing into my skin, but I push on after him. Soon, we've crossed to the other side of the road and enter the bus station. KTEL Kiffisou is swarming with people, most of whom are lined up against the sprinkling of shops waiting for their buses to arrive. Bucky beelines for the information office, keeping his head down and his hat pulled tightly over his eyes, before speaking to the ticketing agent.

"δύο εισιτήρια για την Πάτρα," he tells her, keeping his voice low.

The woman sighs, clearly loving her job, and asks, "τι ώρα?"

"πρώτη διαθέσιμη," Bucky replies, sliding a fifty euro note toward her. "κράτα τα ρέστα."

She smiles, her eyes suddenly bright, and punches in a few buttons on her computer. Soon enough, she slides two freshly-printed tickets toward Bucky while eagerly taking his cash.

"14:00," she says in Greek, pointing toward the clock.

It's 1:50PM now, so Bucky smiles and nods before muttering his thanks in Greek. He turns to me, pressing his right hand against the small of my back, and guides me away from the office.

"You speak Greek?" I ask quietly.

He nods, "We're going to pretend that you do too, so just smile and nod. When we get to the bus, I want you to laugh like I told you a joke. Let me do the talking."

There's nothing I can do to argue with him, so I don't. Instead, we head straight for the bus and I smile and nod like we're enjoying a conversation in hushed tones. Bucky's deep voice is softer than usual as he speaks to me in Greek, and - even though I have no idea what he's saying - I love the way it sounds. When we approach the driver, his blue eyes meet mine and he gives me a miniscule nod before murmuring another phrase. He chuckles, keeping his face turned to mine as he hands the tickets to the driver, and I let out a nervous laugh.

Soon enough, we've boarded the bus and selected our seats. I take the window, leaning my head against the glass, while Bucky glances around at our fellow passengers before settling into his aisle seat. His metal arm is pressed against my right side, his hand tucked into his pocket to keep it hidden, and I grimace as he accidentally bumps my wound.

Sucking in a breath, I sit upright and adjust ever-so-slightly while Bucky turns to look at me.

"You okay?" He asks softly.

I nod, forcing a weak grin, "Yeah. I think my whole body is covered in bruises though." 

He watches me closely, and I can feel his blue eyes analyzing my face. He's so perceptive, I know there's a chance that he knows something is wrong, but if he doesn't then he doesn't show it. Instead, his blue eyes look tired as the corner of his mouth curls up in a small smile. 

"It's going to be okay, Chloe," he assures me. "Just get some rest." 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff ahead of the fluffiest kind.

"Chloe," Bucky's voice pulls me out of my sleep. "We're nearly there."

My head is slumped to the side, resting on Bucky's metal shoulder, and I struggle to force my eyes open. Everything feels hazy - my head is pounding, my body aches, and Bucky's voice sounds distant - but I manage to push myself upright, exhaling shakily as my shirt tugs on my injured side.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask, rubbing my temple.

Bucky glances out the window before looking back at me, "About three hours."

Damn. I didn't mean to sleep the entire time - I didn't mean to fall asleep at all - but after what happened back there, I'm exhausted. No doubt the blood loss isn't helping, but that's not something I want Bucky to know. Not yet, at least. He's got enough to worry about, between keeping us safe and avoiding his own capture, that I don't want to add to his burden.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I, um...didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

The corner of his mouth turns upward, "It's fine. Not like you cut off my circulation or anything."

"True," I reply. "You make a surprisingly good pillow."

As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I can feel my cheeks burning and based on the smirk Bucky is giving me...he can tell. I turn away from him, opting to stare out the window rather than face those perceptive blue eyes, and force myself to exhale slowly.

Blood loss makes you say stupid things. Don't say stupid things.

The bus creaks to a stop, and passengers begin to pile out. I can see a few travelers waiting outside the bus next to the brown and red building, and there appears to be a tiny shop and a cafe in the building. Bucky still hasn't moved, so I glance at him and see that he is facing forward, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Once everyone has passed us, he stands and beckons me to follow him outside.

It's warm out, and a gentle breeze is blowing in from the water across the street. The Ionian Sea ripples blue in the sunlight as I step off the bus, blinking as I adjust to the blindingly bright sun. My body is less cooperative than I thought, I realize as I grip the railing tightly, and I'm far weaker than I should be. Bucky turns to me just as step off the bus, my knees buckling once my feet hit the pavement, and his arm wraps around my waist right before I fall.

Hissing in pain from where his side bumps my wound, my hand covers the injury as he holds me upright. A few of our fellow passengers are watching us carefully, so I bite my lip to prevent any further sounds from escaping and feign a twisted ankle. The people staring at us accept it, quickly turning away for more interesting things, but Bucky frowns at me.

Looking up at him, I slowly move my hand away from my side and show him my blood-stained shirt. A fresh trail of crimson stains my palm, the movement tearing the fabric away from where it has crusted into my skin. His blue eyes grow wide at the sight, but the fear is quickly replaced with determination as he uses his other hand to gently push my palm back into the wound.

"I'm sorry," I say, wincing.

He looks away, nodding at one of the waiting taxi drivers, before growling, "Just keep pressure on it."

Giving the man an address in Greek, and what I assume to be an explanation for my appearance, we climb in the back of the maroon Toyota taxi. Bucky says nothing, his arm still wrapped securely around my waist, during the ten minute ride until we arrive in front of a cheery yellow building with green shutters. Handing some Euros to the taxi driver, he slides out of the car - careful not to bump my wound - and helps me stand once more.

"Where are we?" I ask him, staring up at the building.

He guides me to the door of the building, unlocking it swiftly, and pushes the heavy green door open.

"Patras," he says, leading me inside to the elevator. His thumb jams against the button, and he sighs.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal an empty interior. Stepping inside, Bucky presses the button for the floor above us, and the doors close once more. It's completely silent in the elevator, save the sounds of our breathing, and I'm afraid to look at Bucky. He's gone quiet, only answering in short sentences, and I can't read the expression in his blue eyes. It's nerve-wracking and a bit terrifying, having no clue what he's thinking, so I keep my mouth shut instead as he helps me exit the elevator and takes me to one of the doors.

We step inside an empty apartment that is modestly furnished. A small wooden table sits immediately to our left, and there is a tiny kitchen complete with a stove and refrigerator straight ahead. A tiny bathroom to the left of the kitchen and a bedroom to the right complete the apartment, and - while furnished - it appears to be completely unlived in.

"What is this place?" I ask, allowing Bucky to steer me into a chair while he digs around the kitchen cabinets for medical supplies.

He returns with a first aid kit, kneeling in front of me, "A safe house."

"What about Steve and T'Challa?"

We never saw them after the skirmish broke out in Athens, and I was more concerned with preventing those men from taking Bucky than anything else. In hindsight, I feel guilty. Steve and T'Challa might have been hurt, taken, or killed, but at the same time...I couldn't let them take Bucky. Not when it was my fault that he was there to begin with.

"We have a security protocol in place," he explains, gently helping me out of my jacket. "They already know the mission was compromised. Once we don't show at the rendezvous point, we'll hear from them."

I wince as he lifts my shirt, the fabric sticking to the wound, and Bucky frowns.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" He asks, grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting through the fabric to expose my side. "You could've died."

I shake my head, trying to avoid watching him work as he uses water to loosen the fabric before peeling it away from the wound.

"I didn't want to worry you," I admit, hissing as he begins disinfecting it. "It was just a graze. I didn't want you to stop because of me."

Bucky sighs, pulling out a piece of gauze, and uses it to clean up the dried blood, "You don't need to protect me, Chloe."

"I know," I reply. "It's just..."

He looks up at me, blue eyes meeting brown, and I pause. I can already tell that I'm going to say something stupid again, and the heat floods to my cheeks in anticipation. I could stop myself, but - if I'm honest - I don't want to stop. I want to tell him the truth.

"You were only there because of me," I tell him softly. "I...um...I've already lost my sister. I don't want to lose you too."


	32. Chapter 32

It's silent in the apartment, save for the sound of the kettle boiling, and Bucky sits across the table from me. He's been fiddling with my phone for the past half an hour, his eyebrows furrowed, until finally he drops the device on the table with a thud. I glance at him, and his face instantly looks sheepish as he sighs.

"No luck?" I ask, pointing to the phone.

Bucky shakes his head, flipping the phone over so I can see the screen, "It's off."

"Oh," I reply. "How will they reach us then? Do they know about this place?"

He looks up at me, "No. No one does."

My stomach does a flip. Bucky and I are on our own, off the grid, while we're being hunted. Without Steve and T'Challa, it's just us. I trust Bucky. I know he'll do whatever is necessary to keep us safe, but I'm still worried about our friends.

"So, Greece, huh?" I say, breaking the silence. "Do you have safe houses in every country?"

"No," he replies. "But I set up as many as I could, after...."

I inhale deeply. After Hydra. After he escaped their control, after he learned who he really was. No longer a weapon, a toy to be manipulated, Bucky went off to find himself and to stay hidden. He told me about it before, about why he chose to stay underground instead of revealing himself to Steve. He knew enough about S.H.I.E.L.D. to know that Hydra had infiltrated it long ago, and - if they were there - they could certainly be anywhere else. When he was the Winter Soldier, he didn't know all of the secrets of Hydra, just his role in it. They told him only what he needed to know to complete his missions, which - apparently - didn't even include his name.

I speak up, hoping to pull him out of the memories I know must be flashing through his mind, "Why Greece, then? Just a random choice, or...?"

"My grandmother was Greek," he explains, his blue eyes clouded with the past. "She immigrated to the United States with her family when she was a teenager, and she met my grandfather two years later. She used to talk about it all the time when I was a kid. Told me my eyes were as blue as the Ionian."

I smile, "It's true. You've never told me about your family before."

"You never asked," he replies, the corner of his mouth turning up in that signature smirk.

Scoffing, I laugh, "I know. I'm a terrible person. But I'm asking now. Will you tell me about them?"

He smiles back at me, the expression tinged with sadness, as he wrings his hands together. I don't want to press him, so I say nothing, opting to wait for him to talk if he wants to do so. After a few moments, I start to feel guilty about asking - about bring up these memories that are obviously difficult for him - and I open my mouth to speak.

"I was born in Indiana," Bucky says slowly. "Shelbyville. It's just a little town, southeast of Indianapolis. I don't really remember it much - we moved to Brooklyn when I was four."

Reaching across the table, I grab his hand and squeeze it, "What were your parents' names?"

"George and Winnifred. I was named after my grandpa, on my dad's side. James William Barnes," he tells me. "I was the oldest of four."

I don't know why, but I never thought about Bucky having siblings. I can't imagine what that must be like for him, knowing that his family...his whole world...is gone. Everything he knew, everything familiar, washed away by the sands of time.

Except Steve.

I understand why they cling to each other, why their friendship is so important. For Steve, he's been adjusting to this new world on his own - to find out that he's not must've been wonderful. Bucky, on the other hand, is just now coming to terms with everything. As his memory comes back, as glimpses of the man he used to be peak through the cracks in his tough facade, he's realizing how much he needs someone like Steve. Someone who can understand him, at least in the smallest of ways.

"Are they...." my voice cracks

I don't know how to ask if they're alive. It's possible, even if they would be nearly 100, meaning he could reunite with someone from his family. Someone else from his past. He could have more relatives than he's aware of having. Nieces and nephews, several generations of them, all thinking he's dead.

He shakes his head, "I don't know."

But they would know he's alive. The whole world knows who he is now. After what happened in Vienna, Bucky's name and face was plastered on every television screen. James Buchanan Barnes, the Hydra assassin known as the Winter Soldier, alive and on the run. When they finally found him, the news told us that he was captured or killed. No one was really sure, but all mentions of him disappeared.

Until now. People saw us in Athens. People saw me. I know they recognized him, because I saw the fear in their eyes. They don't know him, so how could they know that they don't have to be afraid?

Hell, sometimes I'm not sure if Bucky knows himself.


	33. Chapter 33

After a week inside the tiny apartment in Patras, I've realized that I'm getting a little bit stir crazy. Bucky just left for a shopping trip, probably to get us enough groceries to get us through the weekend, and I've been counting down the minutes until he returns.

The circles under his eyes are more prominent than ever, and he refuses to sleep more than a few hours every day. Each night I offer the tiny twin bed to him, but each night he declines. Instead, he sits in the kitchen doing God knows what while I try to sleep.

Three days passed before I finally convinced him to get some sleep, but even then he only agreed to a two-hour nap in the middle of the afternoon. I had to promise to stay awake, sitting on the balcony watching the street below, with a cheap pre-paid cell phone at the ready should I spot something out of the ordinary.

Which I didn't, of course, because no one knows where we are. I don't even know where we are. If you told me to look up Patras on a map, I couldn't even point to it, and I haven't seen anything of the city besides the brief cab ride from the bus station to this flat. Bucky leaves every day, sometimes for thirty minutes and sometimes for a few hours, and he refuses to take me with him no matter how much I beg.

He was kind enough to bring me a worn paperback copy of  _Tender is the Night_  by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which I've now read three times in the past week. Aside from that, I've been watching a lot of shitty TV on the tiny box television in the bedroom that looks like it came out of 1995, and I've been trying to teach myself Greek from it. One of the channels airs a lot of American shows dubbed over in Greek, so I've been trying to make the best out of a bad situation. Aside from the basic pleasantries, all I've learned how to say is, "How  _you_  doin'" a la Joey from Friends.

Bucky tells me that Greek is definitely not my language.

Flicking off the television, I stand up from the bed and stretch my limbs carefully. Between my bruises, healing bullet wound, and being cooped up inside, my body groans from the slightest movement. Heading toward the bathroom, I run my fingers through my black and purple hair, the weave knotted and tangled from the lack of proper care. My curls hang limp, and I've been pulling them up into a ponytail more often than not, so I stand in front of the bathroom sink with a pair of scissors in my hand.

Carefully sectioning off my hair, I snip through the thread securing the weave to the braid underneath and begin pulling it away from my head. It's a long and tedious process, one Artemis usually does for me if I don't feel like paying a salon, but it gives me something to focus on while Bucky is gone. Soon, all of the silky black and purple hair is removed to reveal tight braids covering my head, and I make quick work of undoing them.

My head feels weird when it's all over, finally free from the tight braids that normally cover it 90% of the time, and I massage my scalp before turning on the water to the rusty shower. Once it's hot, I shed my clothes and take a long shower, savoring the feeling of my natural hair loose from its bonds, and smile into the stream of water.

The door to the apartment opens and shuts, the noise echoing through the small safe house, and I turn off the water before wrapping a towel around myself.

"Bucky?" I call out tentatively, chiding myself internally as soon as his name slips through my lips. Who else would it be?

Pulling on a men's t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, I stick my head out of the bathroom door to see the brown-haired man sticking a few items in the refrigerator. We've been washing our clothes in the sink, trying to stay somewhat normal, so my jeans and t-shirt are currently drying on the balcony outside the bedroom. He didn't exactly expect to bring a woman to the safehouse, so I've been making do with the few items Bucky left for himself in case he visited.

"You're back," I say, quickly cleaning up my mess and toweling off the ends of my hair before hanging the towel to dry. "Any news?"

He shakes his head without looking at me, "Nothing."

"Great," I mumble, plopping down on the chair to watch him as he starts to cook us a simple meal. "How much longer do we have to stay here, then?"

Bucky sighs, probably annoyed that we're having this conversation yet again, "Until it's safe to leave."

"And if it's never safe? If we never hear from Steve or T'Challa?" I ask, raising my voice as I rub my temples. Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly, "I'm sorry."

He turns to face me, and his blue eyes look sad. I shouldn't have mentioned Steve, not when he's been worried all week that his best friend was taken by the men who wanted him. By that man, Magnus, and what might have been Hydra.

"Is this our life now?" I ask, biting the corner of my lip. "Hiding from the police, hiding from the world? If it is, that's...that's fine," my voice cracks, "but I want to know so I can prepare myself. I've lost everything in the past month. My sister, my father, my life in D.C. I just...I feel like my identity is being ripped away from me as well."

Bucky nods, "I get it."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, embarrassed to bring up identity issues in front of him.

He waves away my apology, leaning back against the kitchen counter and gives me a weak smile. His blue eyes look distant, that familiar look of when he gets caught in a memory, and he falls silent for a moment.

"After Hydra took me," Bucky says, "the first time. After Zola experimented on me, I felt different. I didn't know what he did to me - hell, no one did - but I didn't feel like myself anymore. I didn't feel like Bucky Barnes. Not really. I pretended that everything was okay, and that worked. Eventually it became easier to fake it, easier to fool everyone, easier to be that laid-back kid from Brooklyn who seemed to have it all."

He sucks in a deep breath, "But Bucky Barnes died the day I fell off that train, Chloe. I don't want it to be true, but it is. I'm not him. I'm just...I'm not. No matter how much Steve wishes it isn't true, no matter how much I  _try_  to be him...I can't go back to that."

"Bucky," I begin to say, standing up and taking a step toward him.

He lifts a hand, his face contorted with pain from his invisible demons, and interrupts me, "Let me finish."

I nod, remaining silent, and he continues, "When I was the Winter Soldier, I didn't know anything about who I was. What I was. All I knew was the mission. I wasn't a man, I wasn't a soldier, I was a weapon. A machine. When I....after I got out, it felt like I had these voices in my head screaming at me. At each other. I didn't know what was real. Sometimes I still don't. I have all of these memories of my life as Bucky Barnes, and all of these nightmares of my time as the Winter Soldier, and....they're part of me, but I'm not them. I'm someone else."

Bucky hesitates, clenching and unclenching his metal fist, before he sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck. His hair is longer now, reaching just past his shoulders, and he keeps it tucked under a baseball cap most of the time. I stare up at him, feeling myself drowning in the sea of his blue eyes, and he gives me a sheepish look.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is you get to decide who you are," he tells me firmly. "No one else."


	34. Chapter 34

A week later, life in the safe house normalized. I continued learning Greek, only now Bucky helped by giving me lessons and chatting with me in Greek around the apartment. I'm picking it up fairly quickly, which is surprising considering the fact that the language has an entirely different alphabet, but then again - what do you expect after spending two weeks trapped inside?

Bucky's relaxed, and he's started sleeping more than two hours every day. Every once in awhile he flirts with me, giving me a glimpse of the man he was before Hydra experimented on him, and my heart leaps in my chest at the memory. A smile here, a brush of his fingers against my arm there - we're growing closer in the cramped quarters of the safehouse, and I have to admit that I like it. 

It's a different Bucky than I'm used to, different from the one Steve described, different from the one I knew back in Wakanda. It's like he's finally gotten to relax, to explore who he wants to be, and we've grown closer than I could've possibly imagined. 

I grab one of the plums Bucky picked up from the market earlier that day and bit into it, the sweet juice hitting my palate and making me smile. A trickle ran down my chin, so I wiped it off and plopped down on the wooden chair I'd dragged out to the balcony. Bucky was sleeping on the twin bed, his face more relaxed than I'd seen it in ages, and I was glad to see it. 

It's relatively quiet this afternoon, the bright sun beating down on my skin as I pick up the copy of  _Gone With The Wind_  that Bucky picked up for me earlier this week. I've never read it before, so I've been trying to pace myself to make the story last longer.

After a few minutes of reading, I lift my plum to take a bite as a strong hand lands on my shoulder.

"How are you liking it?" Bucky's voice startles me out of my silence, and I barely contain a shriek as the plum falls to the ground and I jump to my feet.

He laughs, the sound carrying through the warm wind, and my glare quickly turns to a smile as I laugh with him. His eyes crinkle at the sides, warmth reflecting in their azure depths, as his shoulders shake from the laughter.

"I'm sorry," he says between breaths, still chuckling. "I didn't mean to scare you, it's just...."

Leaning over, he shakes his head as he lifts a hand to brush a tear from the corner of his eye. His smile is still radiant, unlike anything I've ever seen on his face before, and for a moment I forget everything as I stare at it. It's like watching the sun, burning so bright that you can't see anything else. I'm blinded by it, warmed by it, drawn to it.

"You're an asshole," I say, pulling myself out of my thoughts with a shake of my head.

I can't mask my smile as Bucky replies with a wink, "Only for you, doll."

"Doll?" I lift an eyebrow, my heart beating faster as I tease him. "Are you makin' a pass at me, James Barnes?"

In one swift motion, he takes my book, placing it on the seat I jumped out of, and loops his arm around my waist to pull him flush against his chest. My pulse is racing, each beat slamming against my chest like a jackhammer, as my breath catches in my throat. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck, and I swallow heavily before forcing myself to look him in the eyes.

"Well, now that depends," he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest. "Is it working?"

I can feel his voice vibrate through my bones as he holds me tight, the corners of his lips curled up in a smile that shoots arrows through my heart. The touch of his skin against mine is electric, and I'm hyper-aware of where his hand connects with the sliver of skin revealed between my tank top and my shorts.

Lifting his metal arm, he carefully brushes a curl away from my eyes. The motion is so careful, so sweet, that I have to bite my lip to keep myself still. I'm afraid if I move, it'll all be over. This will all be a dream, and I'll wake up on the balcony with my book open on my lap.

"I like your hair like this," he whispers, running his fingers carefully down my jawline as his gaze skims over my natural curls pulled up in a loose bun. "And I like it when you call me James."

The cool metal of his hand leaves a path of goosebumps in its wake, and I shiver from the sensation. His smile is gone, replaced with an intense, unreadable look that burns me from the inside out. My hands trail up his arms slowly, lingering over the smooth curve of every muscle, before resting on his shoulders.

"James," I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper. "I---"

A knock on the door causes us to freeze where we stand, his arm tightening around my waist while his other hand moves to grab a knife I didn't know he had hidden under his shirt. My eyes are wide as he checks over the balcony, glancing at the street below for a possible escape route, and he turns back to me. It could be nothing, given the fact that nothing seems out of the ordinary below us, but it could be Hydra.

What if they found us?

 


	35. Chapter 35

Tucking me around the corner on the balcony, Bucky ran his hand down the side of my face. His eyes were blazing with words left unsaid, something unidentifiable mixing with regret and worry, while he pressed his forehead against mine.

"Stay here," he instructs carefully, shifting me so I'm out of eyesight for anyone entering the door. "If it's them, climb the railing and jump to the next apartment over."

I shake my head, gripping his arms tightly, as I look at the four foot gap between balconies.

"You can do it, Chloe," Bucky encourages me, "You'll need to keep moving. The balcony on the other side of that one is walled off, and they have a sunshade. Move to the back, away from the street, and hide there."

Pressing his lips against my forehead, he releases me before I'm able to argue with him, and I find myself grasping at the air. He moves silently through the apartment, stepping out of the bedroom and into the tiny kitchen just as the doorknob jiggles. Bucky flashes a warning look toward where I'm hidden, unbeknownst to me, right before a crash sounds as the door handle is broken and pushed open with a dull thud.

Seconds pass like hours, and my heart feels like it is no longer beating. Any moment I expect to hear the sound of gunfire, a conflict breaking out between Bucky and the unknown invaders, and I clench my fists whilst looking at the balcony to my left. I know I can make the jump, but the truth of the matter is...do I want to leave Bucky? Can I leave him to be taken by those men? What if they're Hydra?

Just as I pluck up the willpower to stay, rushing into the bedroom toward the noise, a voice I don't recognize hits my ears.

"Dude, really?" The man says. "C'mon, man. It's bad enough I had to spend a week trying to find you, now we gotta stay with this asshole?"

Ahead of me, I see Bucky's shoulders relax as another voice joins in.

"Sam, knock it off. They need our help," the second man says.

Wait. I recognize that voice.

Barreling through the bedroom, I round the corner to see a man regarding Bucky with a raised eyebrow while a familiar blonde man attempts to repair the door to the apartment.

"Steve?" I ask, stepping into the room.

Bucky whirls around, his knife now tucked safely under his shirt, and he sidesteps to allow me to enter the small kitchen. Steve straightens, satisfied that the door is closed, and adjusts his jacket. He runs a hand through his hair and smiles.

"Hey, Chloe!" Steve replies warmly. "It's good to see you."

Exhaling, relief floods through my system. If Steve is here, that must mean they weren't able to take him. I hope the same stands for T'Challa, and before I'm able to ask, Steve steps forward to engulf me in a big bear hug.

"T'Challa's okay," he reassures me. "I'm just glad to see you're okay."

I nod, stepping back to Bucky who is watching me closely, and smile, "Of course I'm okay. Remember? My plan was always to rely on Bucky. He kept me safe."

"That's not even remotely true," Bucky argues. "You were the one who saved my ass, and you took a bullet in the process."

Steve opens his mouth to speak, clearly shocked by this news, but the other man steps in before he can say anything.

"Sorry to cut this short, but is anyone gonna introduce me?" The man asks impatiently. "Or do I get to keep standing here like an idiot?"

Bucky smirks, "Probably the latter."

"Shut up, iRobot," the man replies. "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me."

Steve sighs, "Sam, this is Chloe. Chloe, meet Sam."

"Also known as the Falcon," Sam adds with a smirk. "You may have heard of me."

I shake my head, and he groans. Bucky laughs, while Steve chuckles to himself. Clearly there is no lost love between Sam and Bucky, so I give him a polite nod instead of extending a handshake.

"Wait, weren't you there in DC?" I ask, glancing from Bucky to Steve. "When..."

My voice trails, and Bucky glances at the ground. He didn't like to talk about any of his activities as the Winter Soldier, not that I could blame him or anything. Steve nods, and Sam smirks proudly.

"You do recognize me then," he says. "Must've seen it on TV. Impossible to forget this face."

Bucky grimaces, muttering, "God knows I've tried."

"Actually, I was there," I tell Sam, shooting a pointed look at Bucky. "I assumed you were just some S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."

Steve claps him on the back, "Sorry, buddy."

"Hey, it's alright. I'm confident enough to know that mistakes happen," Sam replies with a suave smile. "At least now we've got it all cleared up. Now we can move forward."

Stepping toward me, Bucky places a hand on the small of my back. It's a possessive move, that much is clear, and Sam seems to get the message. He looks surprised, but not nearly as surprised as Steve.

The blonde super soldier looks flustered, and he runs a hand behind his neck before stuttering, "So, um...mind if we crash here?"

"The floor is yours," Bucky replies. "We're a little cramped for space."

Sam groans, "That means me, doesn't it?"

"I don't really need a whole lot of sleep, Sam," Steve says apologetically.

Bucky smirks, "You're welcome to leave."

"You wish, G.I. Joe," Sam shoots back, lifting his backpack over his shoulder and pushing past Bucky into the bedroom.

Steve shakes his head, and I chuckle at the interaction between the two men. Sam and Bucky seem to enjoy pestering each other, one as Steve's best friend from his past and the other as his current best friend, while Steve must try to mediate between the two.

"How do I make this TV work?" Sam calls out from the bedroom.

I laugh, "I'll come help you."

Bucky slides his hand to the side of my waist, tugging me toward him as he places a brief kiss on my cheek, before releasing me. I smile at Steve before disappearing into the bedroom to help Sam, leaving Bucky alone with the tall blonde super soldier.

Steve smiles sheepishly at Bucky, "So...you and Chloe?"

"I...um..." Bucky glances into the bedroom, making sure its occupants can't hear him before taking a seat at the tiny kitchen table and inviting Steve to do the same. "I honestly don't know."

"She's good for you," Steve tells his friend, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "You seem happier. Both of you."

Bucky glances at the table top, running his hand over the stains marking the cheap wooden surface, "I hope so."

"Have you told her how you feel?" Steve asks.

Shaking his head, Bucky runs his hand through his hair, "No. I...I honestly don't know how I feel." 

"You sure?" His best friend replies with a knowing smile. "Seems pretty obvious."

Bucky frowns, "Steve, I...I don't do this. I don't know  _how_  to do this."

"Trust your instincts, Buck," Steve replies, glancing into the bedroom where Chloe is laughing with Sam. "You've never had trouble with women before. I doubt you'll start now."

The ex-assassin glances up at his best friend, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "She's different, Steve. This one's different."

 


	36. Chapter 36

"We've been working with T'Challa to find more information on this Magnus character, but so far we're pulling up blanks," Steve tells us as we're crowded around the tiny table in the kitchen.

Bucky went out for food, picking four large pizzas from a nearby pizzeria because Sam insisted on 'normal food', and the three men demolished it in no time. I was barely able to eat three slices before Bucky and Steve had each polished off a pizza, and Sam demolished the rest of my pizza before the three of them turned on the final pie. We each had a beer in hand, something Sam insisted on going to the shop at the corner and buying, and I sipped at my Stella while Steve began updating us about what has happened over the past two weeks.

"What about Ari?" I ask. "Have you heard anything about her? Is she..."

My voice trails, and Bucky's hand finds my leg under the table. His thumb brushes against the skin above my knee, an innocent gesture to reassure me, before he returns his hand to his own lap. Unwilling to break contact with him, I slip my own hand under the table and quickly find his hand. Our fingers interlace, and he gives my hand a small squeeze before Steve replies.

"We haven't heard anything," Steve tells us. "T'Challa hopes this means..." He clears his throat. "We think she's alive, otherwise they would've told us otherwise. There's no reason to withhold that information."

I grip Bucky's hand tightly, "Then we need to find out where she is. We need to go get her."

"We don't know where she is," Steve replies. "All we know is that Magnus, whoever he is, is associated with the organization known as Restitution."

Bucky frowns, "Restitution? I haven't heard of it."

"I've only heard of them once before," the blonde super soldier explains. "But I've got a friend who has dealt with them."

Sam lifts an eyebrow. He seems to know what Steve has to say but didn't expect the information to come out. Steve, however, doesn't respond for a moment. Instead, the blonde man stares at the table for a few seconds before lifting his gaze back to Bucky. Beneath the table, Bucky's grip tightens on my hand as Steve takes a deep breath.

"They were responsible for a kidnapping a few years ago. Fed some false information, ended up going after a few...high profile targets," Steve explains. "They captured a friend of ours, Anna."

Bucky frowns, "What happened? Do they still have her?"

He breathes a sigh of relief as Steve shakes his head, replying, "She got out. Loki was with her, and they escaped."

"Loki?" Bucky and I ask in unison, both of us clueless.

He nods, "He's Thor's brother. The one responsible for the Battle of New York."

"That was Thor's  _brother_?" I say incredulously. "Holy shit. I thought that was aliens."

Sam snorts, "Well, technically...Loki is an alien. So is Thor."

"So, this Loki took Anna?" I ask Steve, ignoring Sam much to Bucky's delight. "Is he working with Restitution?"

Shaking his head again, Steve sighs, "Loki saved her life, then she did the same for him after Restitution took them. They, um...they were  _together_. According to Thor, Anna is still in Asgard. She refused to leave after Loki's death."

"Wait," Bucky interrupts. "So who's your friend? Natasha? Why isn't she here?"

I take another sip of beer, still holding Bucky's hand beneath the table. Everything Steve is talking about is brand new to me, and I'm struggling to wrap my head around all of it. I knew there was probably more to what happened in New York than what the government told us, but I didn't think it mattered. Now there's a whole other set of players in this. Whoever Loki and Anna are, they dealt with Restitution too. For an organization I've never heard of before, they must be powerful if they were able to hold Thor's brother, whoever he is. Or was.

"It's not Nat," Steve replies, exchanging a wary glance with Sam. "It's Stark." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note here: Anna is the MC of my series of Loki fanfic.


	37. Chapter 37

"What?"

Bucky's voice sounds strained, and his grip on my hand tightens.

"Stark?" I ask. "As in Tony Stark?"

Sam nods, "Yeah."

I don't know much about the man except what I've seen on TV. Billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist - we all know the schtick. What I don't know, however, is why Bucky seems less-than-thrilled about involving Stark.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, "He was taken by Restitution a few years back. There was a mix-up in the Middle East, someone hacked JARVIS' system, and an innocent got caught in the crossfire. There was an international uproar, and they demanded his arrest."

"I remember hearing about that on TV," I respond. "Something about a Syrian refugee who was killed?"

Steve nods, "Special forces raided the Tower, and they took Tony and Thor. Turns out, the general in charge of the operation was working with Restitution all along - they had Pepper and Jane as collateral, so Tony and Thor couldn't break out."

"And where were you during all of this?" I ask, motioning between him and Sam.

Sam lifts his hands, "Hey, leave me out of this. I barely knew these jokers back then."

"That was when DC happened," Bucky explains quietly.

I suck in a deep breath. Of course. How could I forget? Two major international events involving the Avengers happening at the same time. Stark's face was plastered all over the news, and the World Security Council even called for his death. They were furious. A cluster of deaths in the Middle East had popped up - all of them innocents - and international outrage was at an all-time high. Meanwhile, Bucky's attack on DC and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D hit a little closer to home for me.

The events on the bridge are still vivid in my mind. Mara, my best friend, ran toward the action instead of away like a normal human being, and she ended up landing a job at the Washington Post because of her reporting on the attack. That was when I ran into Natasha, almost literally, and helped tend to the bullet Bucky put in her shoulder.

I can still remember the look on his face when he saw me, saw us, and held up his weapon. He could've killed us. He should've killed us, but for some reason he hesitated.

That man looks exactly the same as the one sitting next to me right now, holding my hand as if it is his lifeline - tethering him to reality, but they couldn't be more different. Even if Bucky isn't sure of who he is now, I know who he is not.

"I'm assuming Stark escaped," I tell Steve. "Right?"

The blonde super soldier nods, "I don't know all the details, but Restitution put some kind of kill switch in Pepper and Jane, a deadly virus that would be released if Thor or Tony tried anything, but Barton and Banner helped create a vaccine and get them out. It nearly killed Anna too, in the end, but Thor brought her back from Asgard and Tony was able to save her."

"And they didn't destroy Restitution then?" I ask.

Steve shrugs, "He tried. Restitution was in shambles when they left - they blew up half the facility - but Tony never thought they'd rebuild. He even worked with Anna to find their location in Istanbul, but when he got there it was cleaned out. He thought they were gone."

"He thought wrong," Bucky growls, the edge in his voice sending a chill down my spine.

I sigh, "So, what now? We contact Stark? Get his help?"

"It's not that easy," Steve replies warily, watching Bucky closely.

I glance between the two of them, "Why? If he knows about Restitution, then we need his help to find Artemis."

"Chloe..." Bucky begins to say, still staring at the table.

Wrinkling my forehead in confusion, I tug at his hand to get him to look at me. When he does, his blue eyes are clouded with hurt, anger, and guilt. Whatever he has to do with Stark, it's eating at him. His jaw is clenched, the muscles beneath his face tight, as he exhales slowly.

"What?" I ask him softly. "What is it?"

Neither Steve or Bucky answers, and they both fall back into silence. I need to know what's going on, what happened between Bucky and Stark, if I want to find my sister. Impatience growing, I turn to Sam and lift an eyebrow. He frowns, displeased that the burden of telling this part of the story has fallen to him.

"Your boyfriend killed Stark's parents," Sam explains, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically soft tone. "And Stark may or may not have tried to kill him. He tore off his arm." 

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

It turns out Sam came to Greece the day after everything happened, and he joined Steve and T'Challa in hiding in the outskirts of Athens. They stayed there for a few days, monitoring the news reports and reaching out to connections in the hopes of learning more about Magnus and his organization, until T'Challa had to return to Wakanda. He left with the promise to aid Steve and Sam from afar, and - after a week and a half of waiting - they finally picked up on the digital paper trail Bucky left for Steve to find.

Luckily, no one else seemed to discover the same information, so it's just the four of us crowded in Bucky's tiny one bedroom safehouse while we figure out what to do next.

After I slip my hand away from Bucky, I stare at the wood grain of the tiny table and run my fingers across the worn surface. Three pairs of eyes are trained on me as the three men wait for my response, and it's quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Next to me, Bucky is frozen like a statue - only the warmth of his leg pressed against my own reminds me that he's still living and breathing next to me.

"So...do we have anything else to go with?" I mumble. "Any other options?"

Steve shakes his head, "Tony's our best chance. Barton and Banner were there after the fact, but they're both lying low."

"Vision?" Bucky asks, his voice low.

Sam sighs, "He's definitely an asset, but given the Sokovia Accords...I think he's the hardest one to convince to help us. After everything that happened, he's worried about international fallout and what happened in Athens won't exactly help our case."

"What do you mean?" I ask. "They attacked us."

The two men across the table fall silent again, and Bucky takes a deep breath next to me. I haven't been out of the safe house for two weeks, and the shitty TV in the bedroom doesn't have great reception. The only news channel is in Greek, and I haven't really been interested in watching it.

"They're saying that what happened in Monastiraki Square was a coordinated terrorist attack," Steve admits.

My eyes grow wide, and I turn to Bucky. He averts his gaze, his blue eyes staring holes into the table in front of us, before he opens his mouth to speak.

"After we left, there was some...collateral damage," Bucky admits. "Security footage and civilian accounts captured me at the scene, and they're blaming it on me. On us."

Wait.

"Us?" I ask incredulously. "What do you mean  _us_?"

Steve grimaces, "There's video of you stopping them from taking Bucky, of your escape. You've been labeled as an accomplice to the deaths of thirteen civilians, and there's a warrant out for your arrest."

Pushing back my chair, I stand abruptly. It feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, and my lungs are struggling to expand as panic surges through my veins. Steve and Sam watch, concern etched over their features, as I head straight toward the bedroom only to be followed by Bucky. Ignoring his calls, I step out onto the balcony - gulping down the fresh air - as I force back the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

"Chloe," Bucky repeats, his hand brushing against the bare skin of my forearm.

He pulls his hand away as I turn, biting the inside of my cheek to prevent the onslaught of tears from cascading down my face. Blue eyes meet mine, and I glance away from them to catch his right hand hanging limp by his side. The flesh on his fingertips is a grotesque blackened color, the spot where his skin connected with mine shriveled and rotted. He follows my gaze, tucking his hand into a fist, before he takes another step forward.

"Don't," I warn him, holding out a hand. "I, um...I just need a minute."

Bucky frowns, "I should've told you, but I didn't want to worry you. After everything that has happened with your sister, I didn't want to add to that burden."

"So you decided to carry it by yourself?" I snap at him.

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair before admitting, "I'm used to it. I didn't want you to feel like a fugitive. I knew it would be tough..."

"Do you think that's why I'm upset?" I interrupt, gritting my teeth out of anger. "Bucky, this is  _my fault_. All of this. The reason my sister was kidnapped. The reason you're awake. The reason they nearly took you. The reason everyone thinks you're a murderer again."

He sucks in a breath, reaching out to grab my arm, but I pull away.

"I don't want to hurt you," I mumble, wiping my eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

Stepping forward, Bucky's metal arm wraps around my wrist and tugs me toward him. The space between us is reduced to nothing, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves as his tall frame invades my space. Everything about him overwhelms me - his height, his smell, his very existence - as he runs his cold metal hand up my arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"This isn't your fault," he whispers, cupping my cheek carefully, before wrapping his other arm around my waist.

I suck in a breath, waiting for him to pull away from the physical contact, but it doesn't happen. Instead, he tugs me closer until my body is pressed flush against his, my heartbeat pounding like a jackhammer against my chest.

"Ja--"

His lips collide with mine, cutting off my words, and I gasp as he kisses me. Leaning into him, the kiss is surprisingly gentle, and my hands snake around his neck as my eyelids flutter closed. After my fingers slide into his hair, he groans softly, and I use the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

We move in tandem, two bodies perfectly in sync with one another, as my heartbeat continues to race. Tugging at his lower lip with my teeth, his mouth slants against mine and his tongue traces my lips - the sensation sending a ripple of electricity through my body - and everything stops. In that moment, I forget how to breathe, how to think, how to speak.

The only thing that exists is the sensation of Bucky Barnes' lips pressing firmly against mine. 

 


	39. Chapter 39

"Sorry," Bucky whispers, his voice rough after we finally break apart.

My heart is slamming into my ribcage as my pulse continues to race, and I gulp in warm air as my body continues in overdrive. Unable to speak, I stand for a moment and savor the feeling of his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, his breath fanning my face, until Bucky begins to separate us.

"Wait," I croak, tugging his neck in an attempt to prevent him from moving.

Standing on tiptoe, I reach up and press my lips against his. Without the desperation of the first kiss, I notice how incredibly soft his skin is against mine. His mouth tastes sweet, no doubt a result of his love of a certain fruit, and I smile as he cups the back of my neck and pulls me in closer.

Ever-so-gently, he pulls away from me only to press a kiss against the corner of my lips. I can't help but smile, at which point he shifts to the opposite side of my mouth to plant another kiss there. Dragging my hands from the back of his neck to cup his face, he kisses my forehead before resting his against mine. Our eyes meet, and - for the first time since I've known him - James Buchanan Barnes is gazing back at me with a smile that would stun a blind man.

"I guess I should be sorry more often," he mutters cheekily.

I laugh, still breathless, and nod, "I certainly didn't mind it."

"No?" Bucky asks, tightening his grip on my waist. "That's good."

Clapping sounds behind us, and Bucky whirls around to face the intruder.

Or should I say, intruders.

Sam stands there, clapping slowly with a knowing smirk on his face, while Steve looks a bit sheepish. The super soldier's cheeks are tinged pink, and - while embarrassed that I was just caught making out with his best friend - I can't help but laugh at the sight. Bucky grins, his blue eyes dazzling, before running a hand through his hair.

"It's about damn time," Sam teases, earning a jab in the elbow from Steve. "What? It's true. I bet all this Winter Soldier shit was actually just Barnes  _really_  needing to get laid."

Steve and I groan in tandem, and I hide my face behind Bucky while he laughs.

"Can you  _not_ , Sam?" I reply.

He chuckles, "I'm just saying. Homeboy's been in and out of the ice for half a century, which is a really long time to..."

"Don't say it," Steve cuts him off, causing Bucky to laugh even harder.

I roll my eyes, "Let's just....get back to business, shall we?"

"Fine," Sam raises his hands in mock defeat. "Don't listen to me. You know I'm right."

Steve ignores him, "We didn't mean to interrupt --"

" _You_  didn't," Sam mutters, earning a glare from Steve.

Bucky smiles at his best friend, "It's okay, Steve. We need to figure another way to reach Restitution anyway."

"Another way?" I ask, stepping out from behind him. "What about Stark?"

He sighs, "That's just...I don't think that's a good idea. The last time we saw each other, he wanted me dead, Chloe."

"Yeah, but he's had some time to cool down, hasn't he?" I argue. "Listen, I wouldn't say it if we had another option, but the fact is we don't. Restitution has my sister, Bucky. If Stark can help us get her back..."

Sam frowns, "Regardless of whether or not he can help us, we need to think about if he  _will_  help us. Last thing we need is to give him an opportunity to send us all back to prison. The United Nations already wants Barnes, dead or alive, and I don't think Tony really cares which."

"He wouldn't do that," Steve interjects. "Siberia was...an exception. Chloe's right, with her sister at risk, we need Tony's help. After what Restitution did to Pepper, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to help take them down."

Bucky sighs, running a hand across the back of his neck, before dropping it in defeat. I can tell that he doesn't want to contact Stark - to restart whatever happened between them - but, at this point, I'm desperate. We don't even know if Artemis is still alive at this point, but we need to take this risk. We have to.

"Fine," he says softly, earning a look of surprise from both Steve and Sam. "We'll contact Stark."

I bite my lip, giving him a small smile, "Thank you."

Pulling on Bucky's right bicep, he turns to face me and I lean forward to kiss his cheek. He smiles, his blue eyes dark with worry, and I slip my hand into his. It fits perfectly, and my eyes land on where our fingers are intertwined. His tanned skin is several shades lighter than mine, his hands dwarfing mine, and that's when it hits me.

"Y-your hand," I mutter, my eyes growing wide.

His fingertips, which were blackened and gruesome from my touch, are completely unmarked. The injury I gave him less than ten minutes ago is gone, the mark from where our skin connected completely erased, and healthy new skin is in its place.

I glance up at his face, shock etched over my features, and watch him study the skin on his hand carefully. Our hands are still connected as he twists and turns them, straightening his fingers in my grip, to see that the rotten skin is completely gone.

His blue eyes meet mine, and - in that moment - the puckered pink gash decorating Bucky's eyebrow disappears. Completely healed, unmarked skin takes the place of the injury that had healed to a fresh scar over the past two weeks.

It's gone right before my very eyes.


	40. Chapter 40

Sam's phone rings, interrupting the silence as Bucky and I stare at each other. His hand is completely healed, the injury I caused erased like it never happened, along with the scar on his face from our encounter with Restitution in Monastiraki Square. Given the fact that he's just as surprised as I am, I'm pretty sure this isn't a normal ability of his - or one from the serum - which means something else is going on.

_Was it me? Did I heal him?_

"Uh, guys?" Sam's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. "We've got a problem."

Turning to face him, I watch as he presses a few buttons on his phone before starting a video of a news report. It's in English, the familiar logo of CNN in the bottom corner of the screen while the news ticker scrolls across the bottom, and aerial footage of a burning building appears on the screen while the news anchor talks.

"What's happening?" Steve asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he narrows his eyes at the screen.

Sam frowns, "An attack in DC. T'Challa just sent it to me."

"What does this have to do with us?" Bucky asks.

That's when it hits me. I've been staring at the screen for a few seconds while they talk, my forehead wrinkled as I study the familiar landscape on the screen. I recognize it. The remnants of whatever  _it_  used to be, that is, and my heart tightens at the realization. A lump of terror forms in my throat as I fail to choke out the words.

"Oh god," I mutter, unable to keep the tears from falling down my cheeks. "N-no...."

Three pairs of eyes turn to me, and I realize that I'm shaking as Bucky squeezes my hand gently. I can't look at him, I can't look at any of them, as the horror of what is playing out on the screen in front of me sinks in. The news anchor's voice is muffled, so I can't catch what she's saying, but I know it's bad. Just from the carnage on the screen, I can tell. There's absolutely nothing left.

"It's the nursing home," my voice cracks as I force out the words. "W-where I work, where I worked."

The entire facility has been wiped out, only a hint of the frame remaining in the carnage of what appears to have been some sort of explosion. It's all burned to a crisp as emergency vehicles can be seen still fighting the blaze. The smoke stretches high into the sky, and I watch in horror as the camera switches to an interview on the street with a bloodied bystander.

It's one of the nurses I worked with. Her face is covered in blood and soot, her skin ashen, and her eyes are overrun with tears as she tries to tell the interviewer exactly what happened. She clutches a thick blanket to her, clinging to it like a lifeline, as she manages to describe the harrowing ordeal.

My eyes wander to the bottom of the screen, where the news tape is being updated with a death count from the explosion earlier that day. Thirty-six people dead, mostly residents of the nursing home, along with several staff members and a few family visitors. Thirty-six people, most of whom I used to see on a regular basis, all gone.

"How?" Bucky asks quietly, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

Sam hesitates before glancing at Steve, who nods, and takes a deep breath.

"It was Restitution," he admits.

I suck in a quick breath, dropping my grip on Bucky's hand to stifle a sob.

It's because of me. All of those people. My patients and co-workers. My friends. All gone because of me. The gravity of it hits me like a million knives shattering my skin, driving deep into my lungs until I can hardly breathe from the weight of the guilt. Bile rises in my throat, and I push past the three men to run to the bathroom before I vomit the contents of my stomach in the porcelain bowl.

"Are we sure?" Steve's voice drifts through the apartment. "Why would they do this? What do they get out of targeting a nursing home?"

It's silent for a moment before Sam speaks, "That's what T'Challa said, but then he saw the video..."

Oh god. Another video. My mind flashes back to the last one they sent me, to the recording of my sister as she read off the cards and told me of their threats against her life. I didn't fulfill my side of the bargain, which meant...

Wiping my mouth clean, I throw open the door and walk on shaky legs back into the bedroom where Steve and Sam stand facing Bucky. He spots me, his eyes filled with concern, and the other two men turn to look at me as well.

"Is she alive?" I ask softly. "Is my sister alive?"

Sam frowns, "I don't--I didn't watch the video."

"Play it," I demand, despite protestations from both Steve and Bucky. Sam looks hesitant, but I repeat my demand - firmer this time. "Play. It."

He clicks the screen, navigating through the menu, before opening a second file on the tiny screen. Bucky and Steve shift until they can see it, and footage of the nursing home - unharmed - flickers into view. My heart twists at the sight of it, wishing that this could all be a dream. Some sort of trick played against me, but then I see a familiar silhouette step in front of the camera and stride toward the building in smooth, confident steps. The camera follows, zooming in on the person until it stops at the front door.

"Hi sis," Artemis says to the camera, glancing over her shoulder with a sinister smile. Her eyes flicker red as an orange glow burns within their depths, her skin glowing like embers. "This should be a  _blast._ "

 


	41. Chapter 41

It was her.

Artemis.

My sister blew up the nursing home where I used to work. We watched the video, my mind reeling as I saw her step into the building - every inch of her body glowing like a coal - while the camera waited outside. A minute later, everything was gone.

The explosion shook the ground, even causing the person holding the camera to stumble, while the flames lapped at the sky. Smoke billowed around, darkening the bright sun until it was impossible to see anything. I know what it looks like though. I saw the news report.

Gone. Everything gone. Everyone gone.

My sister. My work. My friends.

 _Paul_.

Oh god, Paul. I loved working with that sweet old man, and I couldn't bear thinking about his death. His murder. All of them dead because of me.

How will I tell my mom? How will I tell her that the maniacs who kidnapped my sister killed her? Because I didn't listen to them? She'll hate me. Hell, I hate myself.

I could've stopped this. I could've stopped them, prevented this from happening. If I had gone alone, if I had kept Bucky out of this, then it never would've happened. Artemis would be alive right now. Paul would be alive right now. My colleagues and patients...

Moving forward, I open my mouth to tell Sam to stop the video - I don't want to watch any more of this horror - but a movement in the clearing smoke causes me to freeze. I can see a silhouette, my eyes straining to make out the form, and I nearly choke when I realize that it's my sister.

Artemis is stepping through the wreckage of the explosion, picking her way through the rubble and the bodies, and I can hear her laugh echoing over the noise. It's a cacophony of sounds - crying, sirens, the crackle of the still-burning fire - but her laughter stands out. Her smile twists over her features, and I can barely make out the orange glow still burning beneath her skin. Smoke pours off her body, and there's a maniacal glint in her eyes painting her features until I can hardly recognize the results.

"Handy trick, isn't it sis?" Artemis calls out to the camera. "Thought you'd appreciate a demonstration."

She kicks a piece of rubble, and I nearly vomit when she leans down to prop it up.

It isn't debri, it's a body.

"All you had to do was turn yourself in," she continues, playing with the burnt corpse. "I mean, sure, your boyfriend would've been a nice acquisition as well, but no. You had to go and make it difficult."

Bucky watches me closely, hazarding a step toward me, but I ignore him. I can't look at him. I can't look at any of them. I can only watch the stranger on the screen.

"You know, you're  _special_ , Chloe," Artemis hisses, dropping the body and standing upright to motion at the wreckage around her. "All this? Just for you."

My teeth dig into my lip, biting into the soft flesh until I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I can hardly see through the tears clouding my eyes, and I inhale a shaky breath as she continues to talk.

"This is only the beginning, Chlo," she tells the camera, spitting out my nickname with unparalleled venom. "Magnus wants you. Unless you give him what he wants, more people will die."

She's now standing right in front of the camera, her skin no longer burning from within, and she smiles as she takes the camera and flips it around. Pointed at the ground, I see a pair of shoes come into view as the camera moves up a body clad in yoga pants. Slowly, a familiar face - gagged and handcuffed with a gun pointed to the back of her head - comes into focus.

Her red hair is wild and knotted, the curls flying away from her face at all angles. Normally pink cheeks are ashen and streaked with tears that continue to pour down her face. I can see the fear in her eyes - fear and confusion - as my sister zooms the camera on her face.

"Mara and I are gonna play a little game," I can hear Artemis' voice sing out. "It's called 'Let's Go Visit The White House'. Maybe there will be a school tour happening. Wouldn't that be fun Mara?"

Fresh tears pour down my best friend's face, and all of the oxygen is sucked out of my lungs.

"Come out, come out and play, Chloe," Artemis says, flipping the camera around to show her face. "You've got 48 hours."

 


	42. Chapter 42

"Chloe..."

I ignore Bucky, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. A million thoughts are running through my head, most of them repeating what I already know.

_My fault. It's my fault. It's all my fault._

"Chl--"

His hand lands on my arm, the cool metal causing goosebumps to spread up across my skin, and I jerk away from his touch. My hands are balled into fists in front of my face, my breathing escalated as I press my knuckles against my mouth to prevent a sob from escaping.

I want to cry, scream, tear my hair out at the roots - anything would be better than standing here in this moment. I can feel their eyes on me - Steve, Sam, and Bucky - and I hate it. I hate their pity. I hate that this is happening to me. I hate that I can't cry, I can't dive into Bucky's arms, I can't do anything.

I just have to go. For Mara.

Uncurling my fingers, I press my face into the palms of my hands before wiping away the silent tears falling down my cheeks and opening my eyes.

"I have to leave," I whisper, unwilling to look anyone in the eyes. "Now."

Bucky shakes his head, "No, you don't. We're not doing this again."

"Damn right, we're not," I spit back at him. "You're staying out of it. All of you are staying out of it."

Steve takes a step forward, "Chloe, I know--"

"You do  _not_  know," I whirl around to face him, my eyes sparking with rage. "I just found out that my sister killed everyone I worked with and my best friend is next. How the fuck do you know  _anything_  about that?"

Tucking the phone back in his pocket, Sam opens his mouth to speak before I turn on him too.

"Save it," I hiss, whirling around to dig through the tiny built-in closet.

My jacket is one of the only items on a hanger, and I pull it out after checking to make sure my passport and wallet are still inside. I don't have any money with me, but my credit card should be enough to get me to an airport that will fly me home.

"You're not going alone," Bucky says, walking toward me.

Steve and Sam follow him, each of them standing between me and an exit. I look up at Bucky, noting the sadness deep within his blue eyes, and it takes every ounce of strength I have not to collapse into his arms.

"You can't stop me," I warn them, lifting up my hand in warning. My skin is bare, meaning I'm just one touch away from taking any of them out.

Steve and Bucky hold their ground regardless of my threat, while I notice Sam shuffling his feet nervously by the door to the apartment. If I were to touch his skin, he would doubtless suffer far more than the other two would, meaning he is my best option for getting out of here. He's blocking my way to the balcony, which isn't exactly my ideal exit strategy, but I'm desperate.

Moving toward him in quick strides, I grit my teeth while Sam sends a look of alarm at the other two men.

"Don't do this, Chloe," he says, taking a step back. "You don't have to do this. We just want to help you."

Before I can touch Sam, an arm snakes around my body and holds me tight. The cold metal of Bucky's arm traps my arms beside me, preventing me from connecting with any skin, and I thrash against him.

"Let me go!" I cry out, struggling against him with everything I have. "I can't stay here! I can't--"

Tears pour down my cheeks, my voice cracking as I scream out in rage. Bucky whispers apologies in my ear whilst holding me tight, allowing no room for me to escape, and I begin to sob even more. My whole body shakes, convulsing with every cry that slips through my lips, as I beg for him to let me go.

"Please," I croak through my tears, limp in Bucky's arms. "It's all my fault. It's all my f--"

Words fail me. Bucky lifts his other hand, using it to turn me toward him, and I bury my face in his neck as I cry. Holding me close, one hand cups the back of my neck while the other stays securely around my waist as he whispers words I can't quite hear. I don't notice him nod at Steve and Sam, watching as they leave the room and close the door behind them. All I can think about is the number of people I've killed - both directly and indirectly - and the fact that their blood is on my hands.

"I killed them," I sputter, clutching his shirt. "I killed them."

Bucky shushes me, "No, sweetheart, it's not your fault. You hear me? This is not your fault."

"I can see it, though," I sob, thinking of the two men I killed on the street in DC. "I can see them. It's me....i-it's me. I'm death."

He brings his hand to cup the side of my face, lifting my chin slightly so his blue eyes stare down at me. Even through my tears, I can see the pain etched his features. The sadness and sorrow, along with the weight of his past, bearing down on him. Bearing down on me.

"You're not," he croons. "None of this is your fault, doll. You got that? None. You're wonderful, Chloe. You're beautiful, smart, compassionate, and you sure as hell aren't death."

He presses his lips against mine, the kiss soft and gentle as he holds me close to him. Instead of passion and heat, it's simply comfort and reassurance as our lips meld together. He pulls away rather than deepening the kiss, opting to feather my features with tiny kisses as he wipes away all of my tears. Every brush of his thumb against my face is followed by a kiss until I can cry no longer.

"You're life, Chloe," Bucky whispers, leaning his forehead against mine. "You're my life." 


	43. Chapter 43

The flight back to DC took longer than I would've liked. We didn't have the jet, since T'Challa returned with it to Wakanda, so we were forced to charter a private plane that would take us from the small airport near Patras to Washington D.C. It was a long flight, and I'm certain none of us got the sleep we needed - except Sam.

Bucky glued himself to my side, keeping his fingers interlaced with mine at all times, until finally I pretended to fall asleep so he could go talk to Steve. I knew they wanted to discuss options and strategy, but neither of them wanted to burden me with any more stress than what I was already under. I want to be grateful, but the stress of anticipation is eating at me no matter what.

They can't shelter me from the knowledge that my sister is a murderer.

Once we landed, T'Challa had an armored black SUV waiting for us upon arrival. The four of us climbed inside, Steve taking the wheel, and we drove into the city with silence falling upon us like a heavy blanket.

After what happened in Monastiraki Square, we knew that the likelihood was high that there was an ambush waiting for us. However, this video didn't include a directive for me to come alone, so we wouldn't be separated in the case of an attack. Steve and Sam were hopeful that this gave us a competitive edge, while I was nervous that this meant all of us would be captured instead of just me or Bucky.

We slowed to a stop on a familiar street, trees lining either side of the road, as my heartbeat began to hammer in my chest. Steve turned off the engine, and we all sat in silence for a second before Bucky cleared his throat.

"Whatever happens, it's going to be okay," he reassures me, squeezing my hand tightly.

I nod, unsure of what to say. I could be leading my friends into a trap, and that knowledge isn't sitting well with me. I've already seen enough death over the last month, some of it at my own hands, so I know I won't survive if I have to watch Bucky and the others die as well.

Then again, they don't want Bucky dead.

I shiver at the thought, especially since I know he would rather die than end up in someone else's control again. He's finally gained the freedom of his own mind, and even that is shaky at best, so the risk of losing it again...I can't even imagine how difficult that must be for him.

Taking a deep breath, I look both ways before crossing the street and head straight for the front door of my building. The front door buzzes open after I punch in my code, and I hesitate after grabbing the handle. Once I step inside this building, there's no telling what is waiting for me. What is waiting for the three men trailing behind me. I take a moment to glance over my shoulder at them, and Bucky gives me a reassuring smile.

We take the stairs, moving quietly to the fifth floor, before I stop outside of the door to the hallway. Steve nods at Sam, and he takes off up the stairwell - skipping two at a time - leaving me alone with two enhanced super soldiers. My palms are sweaty, nerves causing my fingers to quake uncontrollably, so I ball my hands into tight fists in an attempt to force stillness on my body.

Bucky and I follow Steve into the corridor, allowing him to guide us through the familiar halls of my apartment building until we arrive at my door. Everything around me screams home, but my muscles refuse to relax. I can barely think straight, let alone relax, as my pulse continues to race. I can hear it, slamming against my eardrums like a jackhammer, and I force my lungs to expand with fresh oxygen as Steve signals to Bucky before swinging the door open.

"Come in!" A familiar voice calls out, sending chills down my spine as Bucky sends a panicked look at Steve.

We trickle into the apartment, closing the door softly behind us, and I'm shocked by the sight in front of us. Bloodstains still cover most of the living room, whilst bullet holes riddle the walls and the furniture. My mind flashes back to the day I found Artemis' friends dead, and I resist the urge to vomit as I take another step into my old home.

"Hey sis," Artemis quips, her tone pleasant as we turn to see her in the kitchen waving a gun. "Welcome home."

Mara sits in front of her, hands cuffed behind her back with a sock stuffed in her mouth, and her blue eyes widen at the sight of me. Tear tracks stain her pale cheeks whilst a new onslaught threatens to erupt from the corners of her eyes at any given moment. Bruises speckle her skin, and a cut on her cheekbone is crusted with dark crimson blood.

"Artemis," I croak, overwhelmed by the sight of my best friend's beaten body huddled in front of my baby sister. "Ari, let Mara go."

She snorts, dragging the barrel of the gun down Mara's cheek, causing her to whimper in fear, "Do you really think that you're in the position to bargain with me? That's not how this works, Chlo."

"Then tell me how it works," I reply, stepping forward only to have Bucky grab my hand.

His blue eyes flash a warning, and I nod in recognition. Don't get too close. We don't know what she can do, and we don't know what she's hiding. Instead, I study my sister carefully. Her features look exactly the same, but her eyes reveal a darkness that I've never seen before on her face. I can't help but remember that we were standing in this kitchen together a month ago, probably arguing about which character we liked best on The Vampire Diaries, and now look at us.

"What happened, Ari?" I ask nervously. "What did they do to you?"

Her harsh laughter bites through me like a knife, "What happened? What  _happened?_ They made me better. They made me stronger. I'm not weak, like I used to be, and they gave me a gift. With it, I can help shape a generation."

"I've heard that lie before," Bucky says softly.

Artemis' eyes flash with anger, "I should be honored, I suppose, to be in the presence of the great Winter Soldier. Too bad he's gone, replaced by a little bitch with no balls. I thought you'd be more impressive when I saw you up close, but damn. Hydra really fucked up when they thought you were their greatest weapon."

"Artemis..." I draw her attention away from Bucky. "Let Mara go, and we can talk about this, okay?"

She blinks twice, "Let her go? You  _abandoned_  me, sis. I watched all of my friends die because of you, so I'm just here to repay the favor. After all, I forgot to tell you thank you."

"Ari," I begin.

Groaning, she rolls her eyes.

"This is getting boring," she interrupts, lifting her gun and firing a round into Mara's stomach. "You'll thank me later."

Steve jumps forward, grabbing Artemis' wrist and twisting it until the gun is pointed away from him. Her skin grows red, and she smiles wickedly as he drops her arm as his hand begins to burn. Pivoting away, she fires several rounds at him before he sends an elbow into her face and knocks the gun to the floor.

I take the opportunity to rush forward, pulling the gag out of Mara's mouth, and pressing my hands against the crimson stain blossoming across her midsection. Bucky breaks the cuffs holding her hands with a single tug, and he catches her as she slumps forward into my arms.

The door to the apartment bangs open just as he lifts Mara into his arms, and Sam rushes inside.

"We've got company," he says, meeting Bucky's gaze.

Meanwhile, Steve continues to battle against Artemis, who - even with her fire power - is no match for the blonde super soldier. He twists expertly, knocking her head into the cabinetry with such a force that I can't help but wince at the sight of her body crumpling to the floor.

"Chloe," Artemis sobs, struggling to push herself upright. Her brown eyes are glassy with tears as her whole body shakes, "Chloe, help me. Please....I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this."

Steve watches her carefully, taking a step backward when Artemis squeezes her eyes shut and bites back a scream as she struggles against her inner self. Her skin glows like an ember, and my eyes grow wide at the implication.

Before anything can happen, Steve grabs a wooden cutting board from the counter and swings it toward her. It collides with her head with a dull thud, echoing through the apartment, and she slumps to the ground, unconscious.

"Sorry," he mutters, lifting her carefully to sling her limp body over his shoulder before nodding at the rest of us. "Time to go."

 


	44. Chapter 44

We managed to escape the building without attracting any unwanted attention and made our way through the back alley to where Sam would meet us with the SUV. Only a few minutes later, he pulled up silently in the large black vehicle and helped Steve load Artemis in the very back while Bucky and I carefully folded Mara into backseat.

My hands flutter over her injury, keeping one hand pressed firmly against the wound while the other reached for the first aid kit tucked under the seat and wrenched it open. Bucky pushes me aside, taking my other hand and pressing it on top of the other, while he rips open a package of gauze pads and passes them to me.

Tears roll down my face as I take them, mumbling to my best friend that she'll be okay over and over again, while her blue eyes flutter open and shut. She was losing blood faster than I know what to do with, and Bucky repeated her name to keep her awake while I continued to work. I don't know much about gunshot wounds, aside from basic the basic first aid certification I was required to have for my job, but my training as a physical therapist meant I had a basic knowledge of the human anatomy that helped more than it could hurt.

"Come on, Mara," I mumble, wiping away tears with my forearm. "Stay awake, Mar. Stay with me."

Bucky glances up at Steve, who is watching us anxiously from the front seat, "She needs a doctor."

"We're five minutes from George Washington University Hospital," Sam announces, driving as fast as possible without any unnecessary jostling.

Bucky nods, turning his attention back to me, "We're almost there, sweetheart. She's gonna be okay."

I shake my head, tossing away a blood-soaked gauze pad and grabbing a new one from the stack he gave me. I've never seen this much blood up close, I've never had this much blood on my hands, and I'm afraid if I stop moving then I'll panic. It's already bad enough knowing that my best friend is bleeding out right in front of me because my sister put a bullet in her stomach. I don't want to think about whether or not she'll make it. I can't think about that.

"I can't lose her, Bucky," I whisper. "I won't."

Rounding a corner, we slide on the seat for a moment, and Mara gasps in pain. Her eyes fly open, bright blue irises staring up at me, as she struggles to sit upright. Shock is etched over my features, and Bucky helps me keep her from moving.

"Mara," I tell her. "Mar, it's okay. You're gonna be okay. Just hold still."

Her chest rises and falls rapidly while her hands push at mine. Tears fall down her cheeks as her face contorts in agony, tearing at the fabric of her shirt as she fails to move my hands.

"It burns," she screams out in agony while Bucky holds her hands down. "Make it stop!! It burns!!"

Pulling away the blood-soaked cotton of her t-shirt, I lift up the gauze to inspect the wound. Blood is no longer gushing from the torn skin, but I can see something moving inside. Something is happening to the bullet.

"What the hell?" Bucky exclaims, eyes wide. "It's coming back out!"

I shake my head, "T-that's not possible."

"You're healing her," he insists, pointing at where my left hand is still in contact with her skin.

A faint glow is emitting from my palm, the light disappearing into Mara while the wound continues to shift. She writhes in pain, struggling in vain against Bucky's strength, until finally a tiny metal slug pushes its way from her abdomen and the wound begins knitting itself closed. Once it's finished, she collapses - unconscious - while untouched new skin has replaced the bullet wound.

"What's going on back there?" Sam asks, breaking up the silence after a few moments. "I kinda need a status update."

Bucky looks up at me, "It's gone."

"Sh-she's okay," I say shakily, checking her pulse only to discover it is returning to normal, and exhale a sigh of relief. "She's okay."

Sam chuckles, "Well, hot damn. Guess we don't need a hospital, then?"

<><><><>

We dropped Mara off at the hospital regardless, swapping her blood-stained shirt with mine while I zipped up Bucky's jacket around me. Even though the wound was healed, she lost a lot of blood, and I don't think whatever I did to heal her could fix that. After answering a few questions about her, the hospital admitted her and promised to call me once she regained consciousness. I felt like a horrible friend, abandoning her there, but I couldn't stay. Not with Artemis knocked out in the car with Steve, Sam, and Bucky.

After a few quick phone calls, we were in the air again - this time headed for upstate New York.

Despite Bucky and Sam's protestations, we don't really have any other options than the Avengers facility. We can only hope that Tony is receptive to our presence, considering Bucky is with us, and pray he doesn't start World War III at the sight of him.

"For the record, this is a bad idea," Natasha says, shaking her head as she greets us on the tarmac.

Steve shrugs, "It was our  _only_  idea."

"That's not entirely true," Sam interrupts. "Y'all wouldn't listen to me when I suggested we drop little Miss Sparky off in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean."

Bucky groans, "That's not an idea, that's murder."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. We all know you wouldn't have a problem with it if it weren't your girlfriend's sister, Bambi," Sam quips, earning a glare from both Steve and Natasha. "What?!"

I take a deep breath, "Can we just get this over with?"

Natasha nods, waiting for Steve to pick up Artemis and follow her into the facility. I can practically taste the apprehension in the air as Bucky follows them, and - shooting a glance at him - I can see his jaw tense as we near the compound. Whatever happened between him and Tony Stark was bad, I've picked up on that much, but I'm hoping we're able to get past it. For Artemis' sake.

"I didn't know you were having friends over," Stark's voice calls out the second we enter the building. "I would've called ahead and ordered a bouncy castle."

Natasha grimaces, watching as Tony Stark rounds the corner into view. I recognize him from TV, his face sporting it's normal sarcastic grin for a split second before it disappears. Following his gaze from Steve to Sam, my eyes land on Bucky. Frozen in place, his hand grips mine tightly as Tony's eyes narrow.

"What the hell is going on here?"


	45. Chapter 45

"Tony," Steve says, his voice low. "Now is not the time."

Tony laughs, but it sounds more like a harsh bark, "I think now is the perfect time, Cap. Do you want me to rip off more than his arm this time? How about his head?"

"Stark," Natasha warns.

He frowns, "I'm sorry, Mommy and Daddy are talking right now. Why don't you go play with the other little kiddos."

"C'mon dude, we wouldn't be here if it wasn't important," Sam interrupts him, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Steve is still holding Artemis, her body limp over his shoulder, and I don't think she'll stay that way very much longer. Sam managed to steal some drugs from the hospital to keep her unconscious, but they're bound to wear off soon, and I don't think we'll want to be standing around bickering when she wakes up.

"Shut up," Tony snaps at Sam. "You're lucky I don't throw your ass back in prison."

Bucky keeps his mouth shut, but I can see the muscles in his jaw shifting as he grinds his teeth together. Tony Stark is wearing on his nerves, that much is obvious, and he clearly doesn't want to be here any more than Stark does.

"We need your help," Bucky tells him. His voice is even and low, each word enunciated clearly as he forces them past his lips.

Laughing, Tony takes a step forward until he's only a few feet in front of Bucky. I want to tug him backward, but Bucky remains glued to the spot where he stands. He takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and stares back at the furious billionaire.

"That's funny," Tony spits out. "I thought I just heard you ask for my help. Tough luck, sunshine. The only help you'll get from me is landing your ass in a coffin."

Steve moves to shift Artemis from his shoulder to the ground, but Bucky lifts a hand to stop him. It's clear that the blonde super soldier wants to intervene before Stark does something stupid, but he's not letting Steve fight his battles for him.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," Bucky tells Tony, unwilling to meet his piercing gaze.

Tony snorts, "Well, that's good, coz it's never gonna happen."

"I'm sorry though," he continues. His grip tightens on my hand, "I...Howard was my friend, and I..."

Quickly reducing the distance between them, Tony shoves his finger into Bucky's chest and pushes him backward.

"You don't get to say his name," he seethes. "You don't even get to  _think_  about him, you got that? Say it again and I'll rip out your tongue."

I frown, unable to stay silent anymore, and fire back, "Hey, asshole. Leave him alone."

"Who are you?" Tony does a doubletake, glancing between me and the others. "Who is this?"

Bucky tries to tug me back, but I shrug out of his grip and take a step closer to Stark. The billionaire hesitates for a second as I enter his personal space, and I shove my finger into his chest and push him back another step.

"Do you want to find out who I am?" I warn him. "Because I'm having a hell of a month, Stark, and I'd be more than happy to show you what I can really do."

He studies me carefully before looking between Bucky and Steve, both of whom look worried by my sudden outburst. Even Natasha seems on edge, her fists tightly clenched, and Stark seems to get the message that he doesn't want to piss me off. He takes a step back, lifting his hands in mock surrender, and grins sardonically.

"By all means," he mocks. "Mi casa es su casa."

Whirling around, he turns on the spot and glares at Steve before exiting the room. Once he's gone, I can feel the tension in the room dissipate as everyone breathes out a sigh of relief. Bucky, however, is still standing straight as an arrow with his eyes trained on the hallway Stark disappeared down.

"Buck," Steve calls to him, snapping him out of his daze. "Let's worry about that later, okay?"

<><><><>

A few hours later, after we deposited Artemis in a containment unit that will supposedly withstand heat or an explosion, I'm sitting in a comfortable sitting room with several members of the Avengers. Vision is perched on a sofa adjacent to the large armchair I'm occupying, and Colonel James Rhodes is working on a laptop at the table across the room. Natasha, Steve, and Bucky are elsewhere in the compound, hopefully avoiding Stark, and Sam plops down on the sofa next to Vision.

"What's cracking, Rain Man?" Sam asks, grinning at the android. "Miss me?"

Vision turns to face him, "Would you prefer a lie or the truth?"

"Ouch," Sam mocks a wound to his chest. "That hurts."

I shake my head and chuckle to myself, muttering about how stupid Sam can be, until Tony Stark enters the room. Even with Steve, Bucky, and Natasha absent, the room still grows cold at his entrance as he stares a hole into the back of Sam's head.

Somehow aware of the fact, Sam takes a deep breath and announces loudly, "Missed you too, Tony."

"Shut up, Wilson," Stark snaps back, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a carton of apple juice.

He pours himself a glass, the amber liquid filling it to the top, before replacing the cap and shoving the container back into the fridge. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, far more advanced than anything I've lived with, and Tony leans against the counter as he studies me carefully. I look away, uncomfortable with his analysis, until he downs the rest of his apple juice and pushes himself upright.

"Chloe, isn't it?" He asks, causing my eyes to grow wide as I turn back to face him. "Let's get to know each other, shall we?"

I stare at him, "How do you--"

"Are you really going to ask how I know your name?" He says with a cocky smirk. "I'm Tony Stark, honey. I think I know how to work Google."

Exhaling, I nod, "Okay, then I guess you already know everything there is about me. End of conversation."

"Not quite," he says, glaring at Sam who is biting back a laugh, before perching on another of the couches. "That's your sister, right? The pretty little one sleeping off what I can only assume  _isn't_  a wicked hangover in one of my containment units?"

"What do you want, Stark?" I mutter, struggling to keep my temper in check around one of the most frustrating individuals I've ever encountered.

He shrugs, "I ran a scan on your sister. Turns out Restitution scrambled up her noggin' pretty damn bad. There's significant scarring in her brain tissue, and - from the video I saw of her blowing up the nursing home you used to work at - I know that she's been injected with Extremis."

"Extremis?" I ask, sitting up straighter. "What's that?"

Tony lifts an eyebrow, "It's advanced form of genetic manipulation meant to grant the human body the ability to heal and regenerate physical damages. It also grants certain exothermic abilities, meaning your sister packs quite the firepower in her little finger."

"I already know that," I tell him, thinking of Paul and everyone else at the nursing home.

Nodding, he continues, "Then maybe you know why they did this to her? Why Restitution picked her - picked you - as their targets?"

I bite my tongue, thinking about the fact that I can apparently kill - or heal - someone with the touch of my hand. It's something we didn't even share with Sam, considering how potent my abilities can be, meaning Stark probably doesn't know what I can do. Not really. Given the reaction Steve, Bucky, and Natasha gave him when we first arrived, he probably knows it's a big deal, but I don't think anyone would expect someone to have the ability to kill with a touch of their hands.

Forget Bucky. If the likes of Hydra or Restitution got their hands on me, I would be the greatest weapon the world has ever seen.

"Chloe?" Steve's voice interrupts my thoughts, both Stark and I turn to face him in the doorway. "Artemis is awake." 


	46. Chapter 46

Bucky presses the button to open up communication with Artemis, allowing her voice to crackle through the speaker system with him. The young woman is struggling to sit upright in the tiny cot on the side of the containment unit, her hand clutching her forehead as she blinks in the bright lighting.

"You'll probably have a headache for a while," Bucky tells her, not waiting for Steve to return with the others. "Sorry about that."

Artemis whirls around at the sound of his voice, "W-who are you? Where am I?"

"You're safe," he replies, grimacing at the fear etched in her features as she stares through the glass at him.

Recognition flits in her brown eyes, and she takes a step backward to press against the wall of the containment unit furthest from him. The girl staring back at him isn't the same one who burned down the nursing home nor is she the one who shot Chloe's friend Mara. She looks like a frightened bird, terrified for her life, as she stares back at Bucky - no doubt recognizing him as the Winter Soldier.

"P-please don't kill me," she whimpers. "I just want to go home. Please, just let me go home."

He frowns whilst watching her carefully. All of his years with Hydra, with the Soviets, he knows better than to fall for her tricks. He taught at the Red Room, for goodness sake, meaning he's practically seen every trick in the book.

Still, he was the Winter Soldier back then. He had a heart of stone cold steel, but now the ice is melting and it bothers him to watch a young girl suffer. The fear in her eyes drives him mad, and it reminds him over and over that he can't escape from who he is. Who he was.

The things he's done continue to haunt him, and there is no doubt in Bucky's mind that they will do so for the rest of his life. The deaths of Howard and Maria Stark top a laundry list of regrets that Bucky carries around with him like a backpack full of bricks every single moment of his life.

"I'm sorry about this, Artemis," Bucky tells her. "I know you're frightened, but your sister is gonna be here soon. She's on her way."

Artemis' eyes grow wide, "C-Chloe? Please, leave her alone. Please...please don't hurt her."

"I'm not gonna hurt Chloe," he takes a step back, reeling from the emotions spinning through his head. "I would never hurt her. I promise."

A sob shakes Artemis' tiny form, and she pushes away her tears with the back of her hand, "How do I know you're telling the truth? Will you let me out?"

"I-I..." Bucky stutters, "I can't do that. Not yet, at least."

She sniffles, "W-what are you gonna do to me? Are you gonna kill me?"

Shaking his head, he takes a step toward the containment unit which causes her to crouch down against the white floor of the pod in an attempt to protect herself from what she perceives to be a threat. Her skin begins to appear orange, heat radiating from her body as she glows like a coal, and the tears falling from her eyes hiss as they're evaporated and turned to steam. The realization that something is happening to her body only sends Artemis into overdrive, panic surging through her as more tears pour down her face only to disappear as her body temperature rises.

"W-what's happening to me?" She asks, gripping her knees tightly to her chest as she fails to control her breathing. "What did you do?"

Bucky groans, "This isn't me, Artemis, you just gotta calm down, okay? Can you do that for me? I need you to take a deep breath and stay calm."

She struggles to suck in more oxygen, but - at this point - the panic attack is already in full swing. He'd recognize the symptoms anywhere. She's clutching her chest, no doubt because of the heart palpitations slamming against her rib cage, while tears continue to pour down her face. Her sobs sound like she's choking, unable to take a breath, and her skin continues to brighten as she spirals out of control.

"Artemis," Bucky glances around the room for something, anything, that can help him calm the panicking girl until help arrives, and his eyes land on a cabinet of medical equipment in the corner.

He moves to it quickly, grabbing a syringe and a tiny vial of sedative, before filling it and moving to the door of the containment unit. Opening the door is a risk - a huge risk - but, at this point, it's uncertain what will happen if Artemis loses control. The containment unit will withstand the blast, sure, but will Artemis?

Acting on impulse, he punches in the code to open the door and steps inside before it seals behind him. Steve is on his way down with the others, meaning he only needs to administer the sedative before they let him out of containment with her.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" He says softly, trying to appear as non-threatening as a genetically-enhanced soldier with a metal arm can. "This is a sedative, okay? It's just gonna help you calm down until Chloe arrives, then she'll explain everything to you. I promise, no one is gonna hurt you or your sister."

Leaning down to press the needle into Artemis' arm, she looks up at him - eyes filled with tears - and smiles.

"Желание," Artemis says, and a stab of panic rushes through Bucky.

Before he can jab her with the needle, she kicks out his ankle causing him to fall to his knees. In a flash, she wraps her burning hot palm around his wrist and jams the needle into his neck before pushing the plunger to deposit the sedative into his body.

"Ржaвый," she whispers with a crooked grin, pushing him backward as he struggles to stay upright as he fights the sedative for control of his body.

It's not enough to knock him out, not by a longshot, but it takes him a moment to shake off the effects before he can stop the girl in front of him from going any further.

"Семнадцать," Artemis quips before taking a step backward. "Рассвет."

He roars, rage and terror shooting through him as he stumbles toward her. His metal arm swings toward her, only to miss as she ducks beneath his blow and places her palms firmly against his ribs and shoves him backward. The heat burns through his shirt, leaving two black handprints on the fabric, as she smiles at him.

"Печь," she says the next word, while Bucky's muscles begin to quake with fear.

A laugh slips from her lips before she adds, "Девять."

"Stop," Bucky whispers, clutching his head in an attempt to fight the pain coursing through his mind. Every thought - every memory - of his life as the Winter Soldier flashes before his eyes, and fear of being that person again...of losing control...nearly drives him mad on the spot.

"Добросердечный," Artemis avoids another powerful blow from Bucky, this time igniting her entire right arm and sending a burst of flames his way to keep him back.

"возвращение на родину," she twists the words out like they're candy on her tongue, the joy in her eyes a gruesome contrast from the fear in his.

"Don't do this," Bucky begs, no longer trying to catch the fiery girl but instead turns his attention to the door of the containment unit.

There's a pad of numbers on the right side, but the code to leave the unit is different from the one to get in. Steve was sure to set them separately to prevent Artemis from overhearing their conversation, in case she was feigning unconsciousness, meaning he was the only one to know the code.

"Один," Artemis says as Bucky slams his fingers into the keypad, frantically pressing number combinations to no avail.

Finally, he types in 0-3-1-0, his birthday, and nearly cries in relief as the door slides open. He collapses to the concrete floor outside the containment unit as the door slides shut behind him, his body shaking from both fear and adrenaline, as he struggles to lower his heart rate.

Too close. Far too close to losing himself, to losing control, Bucky pushes himself up to his knees as he focuses on his breathing.

A laugh erupts from behind him, crackling through the speaker that he forgot was still on, and his eyes widen with horror.

"грузовой вагон." 


	47. Chapter 47

"Bucky?"

I follow Steve into the room, while both Sam and Natasha trail behind me. The room is empty save some medical equipment in a cupboard on the far wall, an empty metal table next to it along with a couple of metal chairs, while the bright white lighting illuminates everything in the room. Our steps echo, bouncing off the high ceilings, as we approach.

Bucky is standing close to the containment unit that is currently housing Artemis, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. When I spoke, his shoulders shift imperceptibly and I can't help but frown.

"Hi Chloe," Artemis's voice draws my attention, and my eyes snap up to the source.

Standing in the middle of the bright white pod, my sister stares back at me with a blank look on her face. No longer wearing the horrific smirk painted on her face when she shot Mara, this girl looks more like the sister I know and love. The thought gives me hope, and I allow a small smile to curl up the corner of my mouth.

"Ari," my voice is hardly more than whisper. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

Artemis bites her lip, "Why am I locked in here? Chloe, I want to go home."

"I'm sorry, Ari," I reply, taking a step forward until I'm standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky. "I can't do that yet. We just want to keep you safe, okay?"

I expect him to take my hand, but instead he stands still as a statue while facing the containment unit. Glancing behind me, Steve lifts an eyebrow before shrugging. Both Sam and Natasha are wearing impassive looks, the former studying the floor in front of him while the latter's gaze is locked on the back of Bucky's head.

"Okay," Ari whispers, nodding as she blinks back tears. "You're right. I understand."

Confused, I turn to look at Bucky only to see his eyes are closed as he breathes in deeply. My eyes skim over his face, noting the tension etched all over his face from the tension between his eyebrows to the muscles flexing in his jaw. Something is bothering him, and I have no idea what it is. Exhaling, I turn my gaze back toward my sister - still thinking over what she said - but something catches my eye. A solid red handprint wraps around Bucky's right wrist, the skin puckered and blistered from a severe burn, and the tips of a charred black handprint peek out from the front of his shirt under his forearm.

My heartbeat jumps in my throat while I furrow my eyebrows, and Artemis' voice draws my attention back to the containment unit in front of me.

"The real danger is out there anyway, isn't it?" Artemis asks, laughing through her tears.

A flash of silver gleams in the corner of my eyes, and - in a split second - I'm thrown across the room. My back slams against the thick concrete wall, and a groan slips from my lips as I shake off the confusion to see my attacker.

"Bucky?" I cough, struggling to catch my breath.

Steve immediately steps forward, throwing a series of punches that the Winter Soldier evades effortlessly before the blonde super soldier is tossed to the side like day old laundry. He scrambles to his feet while Natasha moves quickly into action, barely more than a blur, as she executes an expert series of kicks and jabs that gives Steve enough time to recover as Sam rushes over toward me.

"You okay?" Sam asks, wrapping an arm around my waist as he hoists me to my feet.

I nod, "What's happening? What's he doing?"

"It's not him anymore," Sam replies, tugging me toward the door only to be thrown to the ground as the Winter Soldier sends one of the metal chairs flying our way.

Glass shatters from the door in front of us as we fall through the frame, my hands landing on the ground as hundreds of tiny shards cut into my face and arms like countless flashes of pain burning into my flesh. Sam groans, rolling onto his back, having been struck by the chair and sucks in a deep breath.

"Go!" Natasha cries, waving me out of the way after she's thrown like a rag doll across the room.

Shaking my head, I wince as I stand. The Winter Soldier is locked in concentration with Steve, his blue eyes dark with rage as he captures Steve's fist in his metal hand - twisting it unnaturally away from his face - and slams his other fist into the blonde super soldier's jaw.

He takes the moment to whirl around and face the containment unit housing my sister, punching in digits rapidly until the door slides open and Artemis cackles before exiting the pod. Standing side by side, she cracks her neck as her skin begins to glow orange like it did on the video and tiny flames begin to lick at the skin on her hands.

"I really like this game, Chloe," Artemis hisses. "Don't you?"

Steve tries to land a hit on her, but she's too fast - impossibly fast - and the fire makes it hard for him to connect with her. He tries to push through the pain and the heat, his serum-enhanced skin allowing him to withstand more than the average human, but even he can't stop her. The Winter Soldier rips Steve from her, tossing him so he crashes into Natasha, and Artemis sends a stream of fire at them which sends the two rushing for cover.

The blaze continues to rise, her hands producing more fire by the second, as a line of flames separates Steve and Natasha from where Sam and I stand.

"Sam, go," I tell him as Artemis takes a step forward with the Winter Soldier glowering by her side.

He shakes his head, "Not gonna happen, Chloe."

The sprinklers activate, water gushing from the ceiling in sheets of icy cold liquid, extinguishing many of the flames in the blink of an eye. Sam takes a swing at The Winter Soldier, but he's no match for the Winter Soldier's speed and strength as he blocks the blow and sends his metal fist flying into Sam's temple.

He turns to me next, and an alarm sounds in the building as try to remember my brief training as the Winter Soldier's fist comes flying toward me. I throw my hands in front of my face, using the momentum to push his arm to the side as I step toward him - against my instincts to run - and begin to execute a wrist lock in an attempt to bring him to his knees. He evades it easily, twisting his body the opposite direction, and soon our roles are reversed as he lands a solid kick on my rib cage before quickly maneuvering behind me to wrap his metal arm securely around my neck.

Lights flicker as the compound goes into high alert, and I struggle to push against the Winter Soldier's vice-like grip as my body screams for oxygen. The door slams open, while Stark rushes into the room. Vision quickly follows, phasing through the floor to hover in the air above us, moving quickly to help Steve and an injured Natasha pick their way through the flames Artemis continues to feed from her hands.

"What's going on, Cap?!" Stark demands, lifting his hand and training a gun on the man with his arm wrapped around my neck.

Artemis laughs, nodding to the Winter Soldier who tightens his grip on my neck, "Glad you could join our game."

"Yeah, I liked you better when you were unconscious," Tony quips, unsure of who he should be aiming the gun at.

She scoffs, and I tuck my chin and sink down in an attempt to loosen his grip on my airway so I can suck in a bit more oxygen. He jerks me backward, causing me to stumble against his chest, and tears prick at the corner of my eyes. My hands and face are covered with blood from the broken glass, and I'm certain at least three ribs are broken, so I'm rapidly losing any and all strength I have to push against him.

"Let her go," Tony warns, pointing the barrel of the gun at the Winter Soldier.

Steve staggers toward him, "Tony, don't. It's not him."

"Sure as hell looks like him," Stark quips, flicking off the safety.

I shake my head, unable to speak and beg him to spare Bucky's life, as the metal arm tightens around my throat once more. Steve stares at his friend, hating every second of feeling out of control in this situation, as Artemis rolls her eyes.

"This is boring," she groans, flicking a wrist toward the group causing them to stumble backward.

Stark drops the gun in his hands, the metal overheating and burning his flesh, allowing Artemis to scoop up the gun and spiral around to point it at Bucky. Before my eyes can register that she's pointing it at him instead of me, she's pulled the trigger and emptied several rounds into Bucky, sending him toppling backward - pulling me with him.

Steve cries out as she does, diving toward her through the flames, while her laughter echoes over the din of fire, water, and alarms vibrating through every bone in my body.

It's the last thing I hear as my head slams into the ground, black spots floating in the edges of my vision.

It's the last thing I register as my eyes land on Bucky, his face frozen and expressionless as everything fades to black.

It's the last thing...


	48. Chapter 48

Everything hurts.

My head, my stomach, my hands, my throat. It feels like I was run over by a semi-truck then dumped off the top of a mountain and covered in ten feet of concrete. Every muscle hurts, every cell - hell, I think even my hair hurts at this point. I can feel the cold air brushing over the bare skin of my arms sending a chill down my spine, but I'm unwilling to open my eyes.

I don't want to see anything. I don't want to see anyone.

I just want him.

God, that thought hits me like a sledgehammer to the ribcage.

Him. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes.

The man I started falling in love with from the very moment I overheard Steve talking to him when he was still frozen in Wakanda. I never got to tell him how I felt. We never got to go on a real date. Now we never will.

I've got to be honest, part of me wishes I could take this whole month back. Erase the stress, erase the death, erase the pain and the heartache, but...I can't. I can't take it back, and even if I could...I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't change it. I wouldn't change meeting him.

A shuffling noise pulls me from my thoughts, and I debate whether or not I should feign unconsciousness or open my eyes to whoever is intruding on my wallowing session. As much as I want to force myself back to sleep, I doubt it will come, so I take a deep breath and allow my eyelids to flutter open and accept the light.

Everything is blurry at first, a smattering of light and colors blended together in front of my face until I blink it back into focus. Next to me, Steve Rogers is sitting on an armchair with a book open in his lap. Bandages cover the right side of his body, his face decorated with shiny pink burns that certainly weren't there before.

My sister did that.

It takes him a minute to notice that I'm awake, and when he does he smiles slowly at me. The book claps shut, dust particles swirling in the air above it, and he tucks it on the floor next to his feet.

We stare at each other in silence for what seems like an eternity. Every heartbeat pounds against my chest, bruising my already torn and tattered body from the inside out, and the silence ringing in my ears is deafening. I can't take it anymore. I can't.

"Chloe..." Steve's voice is a low rumble in his chest, the words sticking to his throat as he tries to force them out. "Um..."

I grimace, blinking back tears, "Just say it, Steve."

"Okay," he exhales. "Artemis is dead."

Oh god. Oh my god, no. Not my sister. A shaky hand covers my mouth as tears begin to well up in the corners of my eyes, and I barely manage to suffocate a sob that slips out of my mouth. She's gone, the little girl I helped raise. The young woman who had become one of my best friends, my closest confidantes. She's gone because of me. God, I hate myself for it even more because I don't want to cry for her. I don't want to mourn the loss of the sister I watched murder countless innocents. She killed my colleagues and patients at the nursing home. She nearly killed Mara. She killed...

"Bucky, um..." Steve clenches his fist, staring a hole at the ground in front of his feet like he wishes it could open up and swallow him whole.

Someone clears his throat, and my head whirls around to face the other occupant of the room. The person I didn't notice standing in the corner steps out of the shadows, a smirk decorating his face.

"What Captain Sad Pants over here is trying to say, my dear, is that your boyfriend is alive," Tony Stark says, rolling his eyes.

I gasp, "What?"

"Yep," Stark stuffs his hands in his pockets, kicking an imaginary dust bunny away from the floor as he steps forward. "He survived."

Shaking my head, I try to speak but my words sound more like a croak, "H-how?"

"You, um..." Steve rubs his hands together nervously, "You healed him."

Stark snorts, "Healed him? You basically brought him back from the dead. He had four rounds put into his chest, including one straight to the heart, but he walked away without a scratch on him."

"So," I look between the two of them. "Where is he?"

That's when it gets quiet again, both of them staring at the floor before exchanging veiled looks. Neither of them wants to speak, like they're afraid that the words will break me, and I furrow my eyebrows at them. What can be so bad? If Bucky's alive, that's all that matters. I don't want to waste anymore time when I could be telling him how I feel, starting fresh, moving past this horrific experience with my sister.

Steve's blue eyes are brimming with sadness as he sucks in a deep breath.

"He's gone, Chloe. He left." 


	49. Epilogue

It's been seven months since I've seen James Buchanan Barnes.

Sucks to hear, doesn't it? Yeah. It sucks for me too.

My sister died, my work was literally blown to shit, my entire life was disassembled before my very eyes and the one thing that kept me sane. The one thing I was starting to rely on as a constant...disappeared.

I wanted to be mad at him, but I couldn't. Believe me, I tried.

First, I spent about a few days in denial. I thought they were lying to me, that something was wrong - that they were keeping him from me. I even went off on Stark, blaming him for the whole situation, screaming that he was keeping him from us. I couldn't and wouldn't accept that he left me.

Then I was pissed. Not like the normal kind of anger when you're just kinda mad, but the big 'this shit is worse than a volcano' angry. Everyone avoided me. I was in the medical wing of the Avengers facility for quite a while, recovering from the injuries that covered a large portion of my body - including some nasty internal bruising - and I hated the entire world.

My life, my sister, and my love were all ripped away from me one-by-one, so...I think I had a good excuse.

About two weeks after that, I fell into a depression like nothing I'd ever experienced before. They tried to get me out of the room assigned to me, but I refused to go anywhere. My mom visited, T'Challa, even S'yan - which, truthfully, definitely didn't go very well - but I wouldn't have any of it. Eventually Natasha managed to get me off my ass and into the training center, allowing me to focus my pent-up emotions on learning how to defend myself. She continued to teach me the same way Bucky did - focusing on disarming and defending myself with non-lethal force - while I worked with Vision on controlling my other abilities.

Eventually, Tony offered me a spot with the Avengers. They didn't want me to leave, especially considering Magnus and Restitution were still out there, and I knew they were right, so I stayed. Instead of taking an active combat role, they taught me how to fly the jet, operate tech, and do a lot of support roles in the field so I wouldn't be forced to use my abilities any more than necessary. I had no problem healing people, which made me an invaluable asset in the field, but I refuse to hurt anyone. It's just...I can't.

Little do they know, the only reason I stayed with them was to use their technology. Well, Tony probably knows, but I don't think he cares. Either that or he's still scared of what I can do.

I've been searching for Bucky non-stop, and I finally have a lead. Steve's been doing what he can to help, but he refused to stay at the facility. He swears the rift between himself and Tony has been healed, but he's just not ready to work with us, so he's been my legs on the ground while I've provided the tech support.

Yesterday morning he called me from a payphone in the middle of Oregon, so...here I am. I've been driving the rental Toyota Corolla I picked up from the airport in Eugene for over an hour, and I'm less than five minutes away from the GPS coordinates he sent me.

Finally, I pull up to a gate at the end of a narrow road in the middle of the mountains of the Willamette National Forest. Following Steve's advice, I lock the car here and climb over the gate instead of swinging it open and driving up to the cabin.

My pulse is racing, blood rushing through my ears as I walk up the narrow driveway. It's quiet in the woods, with only the wind rushing through the trees to accompany me, and I swallow the lump in my throat as the tiny cabin comes into view.

I freeze, unsure if I should take a step forward or run back to my rental car, as a million and one doubts run through my head. Is this the right decision? What if he doesn't recognize me? What if he's still the Winter Soldier? What if he tries to kill me?

_What if he doesn't love me?_

Every doubt I have stabs me in the chest like a knife, ripping into my heart in a way that is more painful than any of the wounds I have recovered from over the past two months. I stare at the dirt beneath my feet, willing my legs to move, to run away, to do  _anything_.

"Chloe?"

I look up, my eyes connecting with two familiar blue orbs that are staring at me in shock. His face is so familiar, I can't help but trace every curve and contour with my mind as if I'm committing it to memory for fear that I'll never see it again.

If I'm completely honest, I've thought about this moment a lot over the past few months. Learning that Bucky was still alive, I imagined it over and over in my mind - both waking and sleeping - and I pictured it a million different ways. I wasn't sure if I'd laugh or cry, scream at him or smother him with kisses, and now that it's here?

I still don't know what to do.

"Hi," I whisper, finally breaking the silence.

Bucky exhales slowly, "What are you doing here?"

"I, um..." my voice cracks. "Steve helped me find you."

He frowns, running his hand along the back of his neck, and my brain screams at me for being an idiot. I know I shouldn't have come here, but I couldn't leave it the way that it was.

"You shouldn't be here," he replies, shaking his head as I take a step toward him.

His hair is longer, the curtain of brown falling in front of one eye before he shoves it back with his hand. It falls into his face again, inevitably, and I crack the tiniest of smiles at the sight of it. Aside from the hair, he looks exactly the same. His ever-present stubble decorates his jawline, and his eyes stare at me with the same familiar blue. Less than three feet separate us, and all I want to do is reach out to touch him.

Instead, I clear my throat, "This is a nice place."

"Thanks," Bucky says simply.

Tapping my fingers against my leg, I force a smile, "I've missed you. We all have. Except Tony, but nobody really cares what he thinks anyway."

"Chloe..."

I hold up a hand to stop him, "Listen, I...um...I know why you left. I get it, really. Steve said you felt guilty after everything that happened, after Artemis..."

My voice trails, and I swear I can hear a bird somewhere in the trees. Taking a shaky inhale, I clench and unclench my fists tightly before looking back up at him. I need to say what I came here to say, because I know I'll regret it if I don't.

"It wasn't your fault," I blurt out, pushing back tears as I continue to speak. "It was me. It was my fault. Everything that happened, between Athens, my sister, what she did to you..." I sniff back tears, running the back of my hand over my cheeks to push them away before continuing. "I, um...I wanted to say I'm sorry."

My voice breaks, and Bucky eliminates the distance between us in a heartbeat as I turn away from him. His hand cups the side of my face, gently tilting my chin up toward him, while his other arm brushes a curl away from my face. Looking up at him, my senses are completely overwhelmed - invaded by his presence - and I can barely breathe as I drown in his azure eyes.

His lips meet mine, pressing gently at first, and I nearly lose myself as I return the kiss. The pressure of his lips against mine is soft, like silk trailing across my skin, but there is an urgency as we drink each other in, like we both want to make this moment last a lifetime. It's both innocent and passionate, and after a few moments my lungs are desperate for oxygen as he breaks away and looks down at me.

"You left without saying goodbye," I mumble, unable to think clearly as I try to regain my composure.

Bucky presses his forehead against mine, "I didn't want to say goodbye."

"So don't," I reply. "Don't leave me."

He kisses me again, this time threading his fingers through my hair whilst his metal arm wraps carefully around my waist. The remaining inch between us is gone, our bodies pressed against each other, and I loop my arms around his neck. His mouth tastes like coffee, and a smile curves up the corner of his lips as he moves away from my lips to leave a trail of kisses along my neck all the way to my ear.

"I won't," Bucky whispers. "I can't." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> So...*whew* that was an emotional ride, right? Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I do have more Marvel fanfic available on Wattpad, and I hope to eventually crosspost more of that here. My Loki series is pretty damn popular — over a million reads — but it's also three complete books, so that's a lot of copying + pasting. ;) 
> 
> Currently, I have no plans to write a sequel to this book. However, I did want to make sure that there was room for one should I change my mind. I love Chloe and Bucky, but I'm currently swamped with writing projects, so it's definitely on the bottom of my to-do list. I'm also toying with branching off into another Avenger, but who knows what the future holds?


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